


I Might Love You, Charity Jones

by Remington



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Finn fucks up extorting, Hancock fucks up the white knight thing, Internalized Misogyny, Just fuck ups alllll the way around, Misogyny, We're putting this burn in a slow cooker, charity came from a shitty and controlling family so serious warning for abuse, i'll put trigger warnings in as they come, it's gonna be marinating for a while, shitty marriages, southern f!ss, who loves a SLOW BURN
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-05-01 19:30:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 65,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19184194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Remington/pseuds/Remington
Summary: People were too polite these days. "Oh, nice to meet you," or "How have you been?" Greetings that left no substance, no character. Everyone knew the real way to leave an impression was to get stabbed by the mayor in the stupidest act of heroism the world had ever seen. At least Charity could say she wasn't boring.----Also known as: She wasn't meant to be in this world. And as an apology for being the one to come out of that pod instead of him, she was going to carve the wasteland into a place worthy of their son, the Commonwealth and all its' dangers be damned.Hancock feels kind of bad about the stabbing, so he tags along too.





	1. White Knights and Street Fights

Honestly, if he had met himself ten, fifteen years ago, asked himself what he’d be doing as a grown-ass man, little Finn might have not pictured “selling insurance”. However, he _might_ have been less surprised to hear the full description, which was “selling insurance, with knives.”

Yeah, that was more like it. The scheme -gig, he reminded himself; he wasn’t some sort of Shroud villain in alleyways . . . well, alleyways maybe, but point is, he wasn’t no caper-crawler- went like so: approach the newest idiot to be lured by the seductive neon of Goodneighbor’s signage, usually wide-eyed, wannabe rebels who thought Diamond City was just a little bit too clean for their liking, or who wanted to worry Mom and Dad into a froth just for a little fun. It was usually the former, sometimes the latter, and sometimes it was just drifters, entirely unsure where they belonged and knowing that it sure as hell wasn’t here. Finn considered them all “customers” in his mind. He wasn’t a man to _discriminate_.

He’d approach them. Nice as can be, which knowing Finn wasn’t very nice at all. Goodneighbor hospitality, he liked to say. Most with brains between their ears were suspicious within the first few seconds. That was good. A little ego-stroking, too, because people being afraid of him always meant power. Then he’d explain the problem they had, even if they didn’t know it. You see, they were alone, afraid (usually), unprotected, and if something were to _happen_ , well, that would just be too unfortunate. The wasteland was an uncaring mistress. Finn was all too happy in his role of this love affair.

Usually he didn’t even need to resort to “accidents”. The drifters were usually scared so shitless from his murder-happy glare and knife tricks that they paid him the caps upfront. Sometimes more than caps – he’d gotten a few weapons, some family mementos (honestly, what the fuck did they think he could do with that) and, one time, a pair of bedroom eyes from a fella who _clearly_ had some issues of his own to work out. Didn’t mean Finn didn’t play “therapist” that night, though.

It was a good gig. Hell, honest, by wasteland standards. So, really, there was no goddamn reason for Hancock to get so _bitchy_ about it.

“Oooh, your “final warning”, Finn,” he mocked under his breath, knife twirling idly in his fingers, “What, he my fuckin’ principal?”

His neck prickled with eyes placed on it. Finn lifted his head, staring out the corner of his eyes, and found Fahrenheit glaring from the state house balcony. Apparently Hancock had sicked his pet on watch duty. Great. Another thing he needed on his back.

Oh, let her bitch at him. He’d make an “accident” of her, Hancock, and the lot of his little “people”.

Maybe he’d chat up KLE-O. Bot hated his guts and threatened decapitation like a house greeting, but damn did it have good stock. He could probably afford some more ammo. Not like guns did most of his talking.

The second he leaned up off the wall and Fahrenheit (thankfully) went back inside the state house, that telltale creak of the Goodneighbor gates jerked his head like some Pavlovian bullshit. He felt the eyes of everyone beside him immediately eat through his skin, as if they had _any_ chance of warning him away. They could certainly try. But he knew that for all the parading, all the speeches and funny hats, they didn’t give any more of a shit about newcomers than he did. The only difference was that he profited off it.

At first, he couldn’t see her face through the rawhide hat that obscured it – her head was tilted down in fatigue. Body wasn’t rail-thin, like most drifters- that implied Diamond City, or one of the other adjacent, well-fed settlements. Not half-bad to look at, actually. Maybe Finn would push for a little more than caps to cover his “protection”.

As she stumbled through, he caught sight of a long, swinging blonde braid, messily kept but holding strong. Her entire outfit looked a little foreign, or, no – a little _preserved_. A delicious flash of excitement nipped at his gut – what if she was a vault dweller?

The innocent ones always bought the act the best. Always scared so damn easy.

This would be fun.

“Well, well,” he opened loudly, “Look what we have here. Welcome to Goodneighbor, doll.”

She looked up. Well, damn – if that wasn’t a vault dweller, he’d eat his knife. She definitely had the smooth, unscarred skin of most of them – tanned from the outside, though, so clearly not a _total_ shut in. Freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were tired, but burning, a hot blue like a vault suit. She was probably the least intimidating person he’d ever met, and that wasn’t just because she was a whole foot shorter than him. He felt his grin slide further across his face of its own accord.

The woman looked him over carefully. When she finally spoke, it was with an accent he couldn’t place – something from the Mojave, maybe?

“Now, is that where I am?” she muttered, looking around. Upon seeing the neon above, she blinked, then huffed. “Well. Would ya look at that. An’ Preston said I needed a _guide_.”

Finn frowned. She wasn’t nearly scared enough for his liking. So, he stepped a little closer, leaned in a little further, which seemed to grab her attention.

“Yeah, you’re in _Goodneighbor_ ,” he echoed, “But about that _guide_ , well . . . your friend might’ve been on the right track.”

She rose a brow. “Darlin’, I do appreciate it, but I’m a married woman. I’m not lookin’ for anyone else.”

A few snickers from behind him jerked Finn away from his shock that she’d so _massively_ misunderstood his threat. For a few beats he just blinked, mouth agape, until the surrounding chortles made him realize he was being mocked. Frustration bubbled inside his chest but, for the sake of the sweet, sweet caps, he forced it down.

“Nah, ain’t like _that_ , you see,” he muttered, leaning back just so she wouldn’t _misunderstand_ again. “I mean the ‘wealth is a dangerous place. With some dangerous people. And, well, you don’t look like you want those kind of people around _you_.”

“Well . . .” she started, pursing her lips in thought. “S’pose I don’t, no. You don’t have a point hidden in those fancy lil’ words there, do you, honey?”

Why, this bitch . . . Finn swore if he heard one more drifter laugh at him, Hancock be damned he was giving “accidents” to everybody in this town. With the last, fragile thread of his patience, he finally flicked out his knife, and grinned at the sudden wideness of her eyes. Everybody understood, eventually.

“Oh, I got a _point_ ,” he gestured the knife at her throat, “Pay me all your damn caps, or accidents start happening. Big. Bloody. Accidents.”

She frowned. This wasn’t a crier, then. That was fine – he could work with a little bite. He just bit back harder. After a long, long while, she finally reached her hand up-

Only to gently point the tip of his knife down with her finger. Like he couldn’t just jerk it forward and end her days right there. The woman stared back at him, not only fearless but . . . annoyed? Could someone really be _annoyed_ with a knife pointed at their gut?

“Honestly,” she started, rolling her eyes, “That’s no way t’ go about treatin’ someone who did no wrong by you. I don’t remember doin’ any such thing t’ warrant this, hun.”

“I . . . huh?” Finn was so surprised that he forgot to be murderous. Was she … chastising him? Like some kind of mother? Was that what was happening?

“Yeah, Finn,” a drifter called from behind him, “You heard her. Don’t be _impolite_.” The sneer of mirth was clear in his tone. Finn growled and lunged, nearly grabbing the woman by her neck until she stepped out of the way like avoiding a bug. That only made him madder, so he slashed sideways with the knife, only to get his arm caught by her dainty and surprisingly _really fucking strong hands_.

“I _said_ ,” she repeated, tone still light enough to have been patronizing a child, “Brandishin’ knives an’ threatenin’ women at your doorstep ain’t no way to run a business. Now – an’ stop strugglin’, will ya – I’m prepared to help ya if y’ _kindly_ put that thing away.”

“Are you fucking crazy, lady?” Finn snapped, wondering just how the hell she was pinching his muscles to keep him from yanking out her grip, “What’s your angle?”

“Behind you, last I checked.”

“Har fuckin’ har,” he growled, “I mean, you clearly could kill me if you wanted. The fuck are you offering to “help” for?”

She was quiet, and then answered, with the most matter-of-fact tone he’d ever heard: “Well, I’m a lady out by herself. Why wouldn’t I want insurance?”

“Right, because you so clearly need protection,” Finn gave another tug to his arm- no luck. Fine, he lost, and she was making fun of him. Better than a knife in the gut, he figured. “Look, okay, I clearly know when I’m fuckin’ outmatched. My arm’s goin’ numb here.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, letting him go immediately. “Sorry, sorry. Ain’t aware sometimes of my strength.” And she had the nerve to look _sheepish_.

Whoever the fuck this woman was, Finn decided, with probably the most coherence he’d had in his life, that she wasn’t worth the trouble.

But little miss blondie had other ideas, because she was folding her arms, stepping back in his line of vision. “Now hold on, mister, I didn’t say I was done with ya yet. I’m willin’ to pay for a little protection if y’ make it worth my while.” And then she grinned, placed one hand on her hip, and tilted her hat back a little further. Finn caught a few scars on her forehead, crescent-shaped and faded. Old. How would a vaultie get scars like that?

He wasn’t sticking around long enough to get that answered.

“There’s a merc in the Third Rail,” he said, stepping away, “Now fuck off an’ leave me alone.”

“Now, hold on,” she called, chasing after him, “I’m makin’ a series inquiry! Good money! I’m just requestin’ no knives pointed at my person, is all. Other persons are entirely fine.” She cut him off again.

“Lady,” Finn grumbled, “You’re batshit, and clearly not realizing I never had any intention to play bodyguard. They teach you how to read in those vaults, right? Then spell this: S-C-A-M.”

She blinked, Her eyes went a little wider. “How . . . did you know about the vault?”

“Call it a lucky fuckin’ guess,” Finn said. He rolled his eyes. “Now piss off will ya?” Gesturing with the knife, he feigned pointing it to her neck. “Find someone else t’ trick into threatening you.”

She didn’t get a chance to respond. Finn felt those same eyes on his head, and before he could even say “aw, hell”, the telltale click of Fahrenheit’s boots and Hancock’s chuckle made him groan. He must have shown his distaste on his face, because Blondie was suddenly concerned. She glanced behind him as Goodneighbor’s good mayor strolled along, taking all the damn time in the world because he knew people would give it to him. Finn despised the man, despised his softness and his charade of justice, but he had to admit – he knew how to command a crowd.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Hancock called, voice slow like irradiated molasses, “Time out.”

Counting a few beats to make sure he wouldn’t explode with annoyance, Finn pivoted on his heel, raising a brow at his mayor. Not his mayor, really.

Hancock continued, “Someone steps through that gate for the first time, they’re a guest. You lay off that extortion crap.”

“Oh, trust me,” Finn said under his breath, “She ain’t very extortable.”

“Um,” Blondie said from behind him, “Sorry t’ interrupt here, gentleman, but if a gal could just-“

“No love for your mayor, Finn?” Hancock interrupted, stepping closer. He placed one hand on his shoulder. Finn noticed that, like Blondie’s, they were also thin with underlying strength. Funny how he was a lot more scared of _her_ hands earlier. “I said let her go.”

He didn’t have the patience for this. Tempted as he was to tell him that his “guest” was clearly just a strangely pretty merc with way too straight teeth, Finn just couldn’t, as many put it, give a damn. He fixed Hancock with a smirk, and snorted lightly. “What d’you care? She ain’t one of us.”

Hancock smiled back. Finn knew what that smile meant. It meant that if he didn’t play his cards carefully, the cobblestone was going to start looking a little more crimson. Clearly, Blondie didn’t speak “dangerous”, because she was still huffing and puffing beside them, frustrated that nobody was paying attention to her pleading.

Shit. Let her witness – might get a little goddamn sense in her head.

“You’re _soft_ , Hancock,” Finn growled. He felt the mayor’s hand tighten in warning. For all the shit he knew he was getting himself into, he just couldn’t make himself care. “You keep letting outsiders walk all over us. One day, there’ll be a _new_ mayor.”

“Mayor?” Blondie echoed. Hancock chuckled and momentarily released his grip just to clap Finn on the shoulder again.

“Come on man, this is me we’re talking about.” Hancock really knew how to seem friendly when he wanted to be. Charming son of a bitch. Finn readied his knife in his hand, watching the blade silently flick out from Hancock’s sleeve. Here it came – he was ready. “Let me tell you something.”

“Now both of you, would you _listen_ to me?” Blondie yelled, just as her gaze _also_ landed on Hancock’s knife. She inhaled, a hand over her mouth, and louder than ever- “LOOK OUT!”

Finn didn’t realize he was on the ground until his ass started aching from the concrete. Wait. He was standing. He was pretty damn sure he was standing. How did he get here? His dazed inspection lead his eyes to the crimson on the stone, and then to the slender, denim covered legs that were quickly buckling, and even quicker still being covered in red. Finally, he actually looked _up_ , where Blondie was perched on Hancock’s knife, until she fell back with a gasp.

Hancock broke the shock with a hissed “ _shit_ ” and swiftly gathered her in his arms, striding impressively to the state house and all but kicking the door in, yelling something about Med-X and beds. Finn might have cared if he had half the mind to realize what just happened. He was still there, assplanted into the street, staring at the pool of blood where Blondie had been and trying to process one very real, very important event that had never, in his entire life, happened before.

She’d just saved his life.

 


	2. Stabbing Etiquette 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finn is shy. Charity is nauseous. John is nervous. Fahrenheit is wondering why she works for the biggest idiot in the commonwealth.
> 
> \- Not really a trigger warning, but just a note that Nate is mentioned here and some signs of some pretty shitty behavior are shown. Nothing graphic, I promise. -

He’d fucked up.

Oh, he’d fucked up _big time_.

Sure, Hancock, go ahead and stab the newcomer. Oh, you thought Finn was a threat? That’s okay – just outdo him with the Guest Stabber 3000, newest invention from yours fucking truly. Maybe throw in some rad poisoning while you were at it – ooh, better yet, let’s just turn her ghoul right now! That sure would be a lovely surprise to wake up to, along with his pathetic ass and five cannisters of Med-X no doubt slushing so heavily in her guts that she wouldn’t be keeping food down for a week.

He ran his fingers down his pocked skin, sighing deep. He’d already gone through two Jet inhalers. Another one sat waiting, tempting, on the bedside table, but whether it was out of some strange fucking sense of decorum or just the usual shakes, Hancock couldn’t bring himself to grab it. Instead he just settled for rapping his fingers across the edge of his desk. He tried to focus on the thumping. He would thump twice, then once, then twice again, to the rhythm of some Old World, patriotic melody him and Guy chanted while they wandered the backyard. Lord only knew what the actual tune was anymore.

He’d almost succeeded in calming himself when Fahrenheit shoved the doors open, signature brashness charming as a Deathclaw. Hancock could’ve looked like he was going to kill her and she still would’ve glared like he’d been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. Funny kid.

“Finn’s here,” she said, surprisingly neutral, “Says he wants to talk.”

Hancock felt his upper lip twitch. Shit, he wasn’t going feral yet, was he? “Well, send the man in. Let’s hear what a man says when a woman takes a knife for him.” His knife. _God_ , his knife. Don’t think about it.

Fahr regarded him silently. She didn’t move until Hancock jokingly waved his hand, and then she rolled her eyes, turning on her heel and waving her hand as well. Finn strolled in seconds later, and Hancock _must_ have gone feral, because he’d never seen that man look sheepish in his _life_.

“This oughta be interesting …” he muttered. Fahr clocked his glare and closed the doors just after Finn stepped through. Hancock kept his hand comfortably near his musket just in case. “So, Finn, you cheated death today.” His gaze darkened. “And by that, I mean you cheated _me_.”

Finn twitched. He wasn’t even looking Hancock in the eye.

“The- the girl.” He cleared his throat lightly. “Did she, uh …”

“She’s alive,” Hancock growled, “Knocked the fuck out, probably will be till kingdom fuckin’ comes, but alive. Why, Finn,” his grin stretched thinly, predatory in every aspect save for literal fangs, “You ain’t … guilty, are ya?”

“Fuck no,” Finn snapped, _finally_ meeting his gaze. He flinched and Hancock took no small satisfaction in the fear in his eyes. He wasn’t a tyrant, hell no, but there was something _good_ about reminding wannabe tyrants just why their shit wouldn’t fly. Finn turned his gaze to the window again. “But if one of your _guests_ kicks the bucket cause a’ me, well, your little fans ain’t gonna be too happy with me, will they?”

“Hey, look at it this way,” Hancock said, leaning back in his chair and propping his boots to the top of his desk, “I’m the one with the knife. They’ll crucify me first, at least.”

Finn scoffed. Hancock wondered just what was going through his head. This . . . _situation_ , this fuck up on scales that might as well be Biblical, well, _he_ wasn’t even sure how to react. Someone with a brain like a Brahmin, in Finn’s case, was probably having a much harder time. Poor guy. He’d offer some mentats if he didn’t, y’know, hate his fucking guts.

“It’s a _real_ nice window, I know,” Hancock snickered, “But I’m gonna get annoyed if you came in here just to look through it.”

“Christ, Hancock …”

“John’s fine.”

Ooh, now he _really_ wanted to punch him. If Hancock didn’t have one very drugged out vaultie in his upper floor he might have seen how far he could push him. Too bad he would have to settle for a few heated glares.

Finn finally spoke up. “Just. Look. Where’s the blondie?”

“… Why the hell,” Hancock said slowly, “Would I tell _you_?”

“Because,” Finn tightened his lips like he was trying to keep something from escaping, “Fuckin’ hell, man, answer the question!”

“An answer for an answer, Finn my man,” All the charades of diplomacy had left his voice, “Now let’s balance the equation.”

Just before Hancock was sure he was going to burst at the seams, Finn finally relented, and all but pitched a small packet onto his desk. “Give it to ‘er,” he grumbled, “When she wakes up. Don’t-“ One hand prefaced his words, motioning vaguely to the mayor, “Don’t tell her it’s from me.”

“Lookie there, makin’ demands of me and everything,” Hancock purred. “What’s in the package, Finn?”

“Just open it if you’re that damn curious.” He was already walking out. “I know you will anyways.”

The second he was out, the doors shut, and Hancock heard the jeers of his watch as Finn descended. True to expectation, he immediately tore open the brown packing paper and string, only to stop, furrowing the skin where his brows used to be.

“Well, I’ll be damned …”

* * *

  _“How’s that stomachache treating you, honey?” Nathaniel said, voice warm and soft like a heated blanket. He crouched near their bed, splaying his large fingers over her stomach. The bulge was barely visible, but to her – no, to them – it might as well have been Mount Everest. Two months in. It felt like eight._

_Charity placed her hand over Nate’s. “Oh, don’t worry, darlin’,” she smiled, “Shaun was just kickin’ around. Y’ can’t expect a lil’ boy t’ stay in one place for long, can ya?”_

_“No, no, guess you can’t,” Nathaniel chuckled. He stroked his thumb over her knuckles. “My boy isn’t giving his mother any trouble, is he?”_

_“Perfect gentleman, just like his father.” Charity leaned back against the bed. “Ooh, but he does make his mama a lil’ queasy sometimes, I’ll tell y’ that much.”_

_Nathaniel was already reaching in the drawers. “Here, the doctor said to-“_

_“N-No,” Charity grabbed his hand so quickly that they both jumped. She gulped at Nate’s wide-eyed questioning, then coughed, averting her gaze. “H-Honey, I- y’know I don’t like pills. I can sit through it. Just part a’ the process.”_

_“ … Charity,” Nate started, “They’re just pills. It’s like aspirin for a headache. It’s good for you.”_

_“I don’t,” she quieted her tone at the clench in her husband’s jaw, “I don’t . . . I would rather, um, I’d rather not, honey. Please.”_

_“… Fine.” Nate stood, letting go of her hand. “I’ll be out with Thomas. Be back around 9.”_

_“Nate?” she called as he left, “Honey, I’m- I’m sorry darlin’, I didn’t mean it- Nate?”_

_The door shut. He was gone._

* * *

 “Nate…I’m…”

“Shit, sister, you’re makin’ me blush over here.”

Nate’s hand wasn’t that bumpy. Or that thin. She frowned in her sleep, thumb still stroking the knuckles, as if her touch would magically return every smooth plane and small hairs to his fingers like he’d had before. When they didn’t return, her frown deepened, and she slowly opened her eyes to inspect why her husband hadn’t held her hand back.

But what she saw wasn’t her husband. What she saw was a tricorn hat, nervous smile, and a pair of intense, unreadable black eyes that were currently locked on the hand she was holding. The hand that didn’t belong to Nate.

Charity jerked so quickly that a wave a nausea overtook her. Her bedside partner cursed when she held her stomach and, by some miracle of a God that wasn’t listening, kept what little breakfast Preston had forced on her down. She just perched like that, on her elbow with one hand on her stomach, until the nausea stopped rearing its head, and let the tricorn man slowly ease her back onto the cot. His touch was light on her shoulders, not overbearing – as if he was aware of his own threat. He was trying not to frighten her.

“So, uh,” he started, once he’d returned to his seat, “Nausea’s kind of a side effect. Of Med-X. Assumin’ this is your first time using?”

Charity took longer than she should have to process what he said, but when she finally did, she groaned. “…Hate chems,” she managed, hands over her face.

“Sure, hate ‘em all you like,” the man chuckled, “But uh, give ‘em a little credit for doin’ their job.”

His scarred finger jerked to a bandaged wound in her side. For a few moments, Charity regarded it like an alien, like it didn’t belong to her at all. That didn’t make sense. When had she gotten that? She never fought close-combat, if she could help it. Hell, she rarely fought at _all_.

And then, the events of yesterday piled on her so quickly that she suddenly felt sick again. Finn. The insurance deal. The stabbing. The mayor.

The mayor. Right next to her.

He seemed to realize the same thing. As if aware of himself, he scooted a bit further back.

“… Well,” Charity started, “Do I get a name along with the knife, or do I just gotta make up my own?” Dimples appeared as she smirked. “Because that hat’s givin’ me a _lotta_ ideas, sugar.”

“Heh,” he tilted his hat a little further back, “Well, curious as I am about those ideas, _sugar_ ,” he winked, “John Hancock. Mayor of Goodneighbor. Though I think you already found that part out.”

She remembered Finn had called him that, but she’d assumed it was some sort of code, nickname, etc. Anyone would assume that – the man dressed like a civil war museum grew legs and a roguish smile. But to hear, out his thin lips, that his name really was John Hancock, she suddenly felt just a bit giddy. Christ, this was why she didn’t like chems. Her lips were already twitching, eager to split up her cheeks.

“You can laugh, sunshine,” he said, “Everybody does.”

The Med-X would have won out eventually, but his assurance helped. Charity snickered, flopping back with one arm over her eyes. “H-Hancock? Like the- The war? An’- An’ the signature? What kind of world…” She felt her gut cramping around the knife wound in her side, but she couldn’t stop laughing. “What kind of world would- nah, of course, that makes- that makes perfect – pfft – sense-“

Hancock was grinning right along with her. Right up until her laughter quieted, but her breathing was no less heavy. Her hands had gone from leisurely splayed to fisted and tight, with her other one burrowed so deep in the blanket that her dull nails threatened to rip the fabric. Her voice was gone now. All that remained was a quiet hiss of breath, followed by a sheen along her tanned cheeks. Charity hiccuped lightly.

“ …Damn,” he finally said, “I bet you got one hell of a story to tell.”

She _did_ laugh at that, with absolutely no joy behind it. However, eventually, she managed to calm herself, though never took her arm off her eyes. Her elbow obscured most of her face as it was. “I’d say you wouldn’t believe me,” she croaked, “But I’ve found just about anythin’ can happen now. What’s one more impossibility?”

“A poet, comedian, and a cutie,” Hancock chuckled. “Maybe I should’ve stabbed you sooner.”

“Don’t you dare.” Charity’s face was still covered, but her smile could be seen from below. She took a deep breath, then furiously rubbed her eyes. One sniffle later and she was slowly sitting up, taking care of the nausea that taunted the pain in her stomach.

Aside from that, though, she felt . . . surprisingly better. A lot better. Her muscle pains were gone, that cramp in her leg disappeared, and she couldn’t feel the remnants of the bruises from the very hungry ghouls that paid her a visit in the police station. Did the Med-X help that much?

She still hated chems. But she supposed she could be a little grateful.

Charity regarded her savior. Saviors didn’t typically stab their subjects, she reckoned. Charity knew bad men, though, and bad intentions – Hancock didn’t seem to be the former, and at least he didn’t seem to have … _too_ many of the latter. For a moment, or two, or three, she just stared him down. He didn’t seem uncomfortable under gaze. If anything, he only grinned wider, slightly lecherous but good natured in the end. Slightly flashily, he gestured over his coat and sash.

“See somethin’ you like?”

“I’ll let ya know when I do,” she joked back. Charity tugged her braid over her shoulder. “Oh! I ain’t thanked ya yet. For savin’ me.”

“Christ, please don’t,” Hancock shuddered, “That ain’t savin’, doll, that’s basic decency. Don’t get in the habit of thankin’ people for that.”

“I’m the victim here,” Charity shot back, “I get to choose who I thank an’ what I thank ‘em for.” The blow of her words was softened, slightly, by her wink. Hancock opened his mouth, then closed it, then settled for a shrug and a muttered ‘well alright then’.

She shifted around on the cot. Charity couldn’t decide what to do with her hands, so she settled for idly pulling at the strings on the blanket. Stains she didn’t want to consider littered the edges, but otherwise it was fairly clean, for wasteland standards. Wasteland standards. Not hers. They never would be hers.

“… Not that I’m in any place to make demands,” Hancock started, “But, uh, there anything I can call you besides “Blondie”?”

“Charity,” she answered, “Charity Jones.”

“Well, Charity Jones,” Hancock offered his hand, “The mayor of Goodneighbor graciously offers you a favor in return for the heroic act you performed for a man who ain’t never deserved somethin’ so good in his life. Also, because you’re pretty.”

She shook it, grinning. “I bet y’ say that t’ all the girls ya stab.”

“Just the ones who didn’t deserve it, doll.” Hancock tipped his hat. “Gotta go – mayoral duties and the like. But come see me if you need anything, don’t let Fahr scare you off neither. Oh, before I forget,” a brown paper sack landed on her lap. It looked like it had been hastily pasted back together with duct tape and spare rope. “From an admirer.”

She watched him saunter down to the staircase. Charity snorted lightly through her nose. Charisma like that only got someone into beds and trouble – and usually both, as Mama said. In Hancock’s case, she was curious which one he frequented more. Not something she’d ever ask aloud, though.

Her attention turned back to the package in her lap. She gingerly pried it apart, eased the paper down, and then bit her lip. Her braid drooped while she tilted her head.

In her hands was a knife, sharpened like sin but in good condition, and it felt easy in her hands. She was more surprised not at the knife itself, but at the fact that she remembered it, lodged comfortably in Finn’s hand while he threatened her just yesterday.

It was the strangest gift she’d ever received, and probably would have made her mother faint, but Charity felt herself smiling anyways. She rose a brow.

“From an admirer, huh?”


	3. Everybody's a Critic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charity learns a little art appreciation.

Every clock in the Commonwealth stopped when the bombs fell, but Hancock reckoned it was around 12:45 when Charity rapped on the door. He could tell it was her, because nobody else would fucking bother to knock. For a moment, Hancock just savored it, let those three beats sink through the wood, wondering just how many other Old-World traditions they’d filled her up with at that vault.

“Come on in,” he called. The hinges protested as she opened. On instinct Hancock knocked a Jet cannister onto the floor, quickly kicking it under the desk with the heel of his boot.

And there she stood, Charity Jones, five-foot-something of blonde, freckles and smiles, one hand on her hip and the other quickly readjusting a hunting rifle on a sling around her back. She looked glowing – a far cry from the exhaustion he’d seen on her that first day. Med-X could really do wonders when it came to the small stuff. However, Hancock found himself wondering why she hadn’t been carrying even a stimpak on her to remedy that. She’d seemed so prepared for everything else.

Charity didn’t seem keen on letting him continue his train of thought. She tipped her hat to him in greeting. “Afternoon, mayor.”

He tipped his hat back, though mostly in jest. “Same to yourself, Jones. Though, Hancock’s fine, y’know.”

Charity actually scoffed at him. “Ain’t it you who told me don’t turn down basic decency? Y’ earned this office fair an’ square, so why not the title?”

“Fair ain’t a quantifiable measurement in the ‘wealth,” Hancock said lowly, already feeling a grin at the corners of his mouth. “And I wouldn’t be callin’ myself a “square” anytime soon.”

This stumped her. Charity couldn’t seem to find the right words for a few moments, and as he watched the workings of her mind, brows furrowed deep like she could glare the right response out, Hancock found himself just the tiniest bit endeared. Skinny, addicted drifters day after day took a toll on his irradiated heart. It was nice to see just a bit of sunshine around the corner.

“Cat got your tongue?” he purred, “If so, lucky bastard.”

She stopped her search to laugh. This wasn’t the laugh like the last time – the one that had turned into tears halfway through. Just something honest, unpracticed, that had her snorting a little behind her hand. Shit was cute. Real cute. Hancock had half the mind to ask her if she wanted a “tour”.

“Oh- oh boy,” Charity said, winding down. “I haven’t heard a line that bad since before Nate …”

“Nate?”

“My husband,” she was still smiling, “Nate.”

Well. Rain check on that tour, then.

“Lucky bastards all around us, it seems,” Hancock continued. He leaned forward on the desk and perched his mottled chin on his fingers. “So, Jones. I figure you’re here about that favor I owe you?”

“Yes sir indeed.” With almost comical bravado, Charity strode forward, swinging her braid behind her. She carried with her so much gusto that Hancock found himself leaning back while she smacked a hand on the desk, and soon enough he was as far back as his chair would let him, smirking while Charity mirrored his expression. This girl had guts. Too many people were afraid he’d bite them – not in the fun way, either.

“Well?” he prodded, “I’m on the edge of my seat here.”

Her eyes flashed over his figure to prove his lie, and boy did he _not_ mind that sight at all. Keep it together, Hancock. She was married. Unfortunately.

“I have only one thing I would like ya t’ do for me,” Charity said. “Give me a job.”

“I … “ Hancock blinked, “What?”

“A job!” she leaned back and crossed her arms. “Oh, nothin’ permanent, mind you. I’m not lookin’ t’ set up residence – though it’s a mighty nice city an’ I mean no disrespect, honestly. But I’m low on caps an’ I’ve got a bit of an agenda at the moment.” Like she needed to confirm it with herself, she nodded. “It’s the reason I came up here, after all.”

Hancock had to think. He considered popping a mentat, then considered that she didn’t like chems, and _then_ considered that he didn’t give a fuck. So, he held up a finger, then reached in his drawers and rummaged out a weathered tin. A bit of shuffling later and he was tasting that sweet, bitter, and slightly tangy feeling of a good old grape pill sliding down his throat.

Everything felt a little clearer now. Including Charity’s apparent distaste for what he did. She was trying to hide it, and if he hadn’t taken it he probably wouldn’t have noticed. But it was apparent in the way her hands just so slightly clenched, and the way her gaze drifted to anywhere but his, when previously she looked him in the eyes like an arrow to a target.

“So let me get this straight.” He crossed a leg. “You came all the way up to Goodneighbor, from- hey, where the fuck are you from anyways?”

“I …” Charity scratched her jaw. “Sanctuary?”

“What, you askin’ me?”

“Sanctuary,” she repeated, “I’m from Sanctuary.”

 “… I see.” There was something fishy about that and he didn’t need Mentats to see it. But if Hancock wanted to solve mysteries today, he would have called Nick. So, he settled for a shrug. “So, you came up here from Sanctuary, just to look for a job?” She nodded and Hancock rose a brow. “You do know that Diamond City would have _loved_ a smoothskin like you in their ranks, right, sister? Why here?”

And it was an honest question, he thought. Also more for his own preservation than she probably realized. The pretty ones were dangerous, if only because there were certain ways they stayed so pretty. Obviously a vault dweller, but it was rare for vault dwellers to survive – no, it seemed, _thrive_ – so well in the wasteland. Either she wasn’t who she said she was, or her little “agenda” involved something that might be too much trouble even for him. And he _loved_ trouble.

Charity had finally picked her response. She straightened. “I have things t’ do in Diamond City,” she said, “But I need … I need t’ be a lil’ stronger before I can do them. I need t’ be a bit more prepared.”

“Sister, you can get “preparation” at any old settlement anywhere else.” He tapped his finger calmly against his knuckles. “You’re not tellin’ me the whole truth. I’m sayin’ this cause I like you …” Hancock’s voice went low. “Don’t. Lie. To me.”

That … wasn’t fear in her eyes. It was something – something strong, but not fear. Charity’s jaw had set, and it looked a little like she was calculating. Like he was an equation she couldn’t solve. Hancock realized then that this woman was a lot smarter than she was letting on. And he was _damn_ curious why that was such a big secret.

“Point taken,” she finally said, quietly. Charity perched herself on the arm of the couch. “I s’pose it ain’t fair t’ hold when I’m askin’ for payment, is it?” She chuckled lightly and tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Glad you’ve caught on,” he said without much humor. “Now then, if you will …?”

“Right.” She took in a breath. “Let’s just say I’m lookin’ for someone. Someone important t’ me. I wanted t’ go straight t’ Diamond City, y’ see, an’ ask around – but on the way, I, er …” Hancock watched one of her smooth fingers nervously twist around a strand of hair. “I got in trouble. A lot of it. I could handle scraps, an’ the wildlife, but the …” her gaze went a little dark, distant, “People … I’d never seen people kill each other. I’d never … I’d never had to kill someone myself. But all of the sudden, I had, an’ there were five dead raiders at my feet. People were thankin’ me. I felt like a monster. I never wanted t’ feel like that again.”

Hancock suddenly realized the reason she’d pushed Finn out of the way. He knew vaults liked to keep their kids clean, pure, unaware of the world, but Christ – he thought they at least were a _little_ truthful about just _why_ they wouldn’t last a second out there. Killing wasn’t something he relished, in the same way he didn’t relish doing laundry as a kid, or helping to clean the house. Just something to be avoided if he could help it, no sweat if he couldn’t. Charity’s outlook was so pre-war he almost got whiplash.

“An’ I realized that I might just be the most outta my element that this Commonwealth has ever seen. In way more ways than y’ can imagine.”

He almost interjected. Were this story coming from anyone else he would have demanded a point already. Something in the weight of her gaze, however, kept drawing him back to the last time they’d met, to that sheen of tears down her cheeks. Right after her laughter.

So he stayed quiet.

 “So I went back to Sanctuary,” she continued, “An’ my friend said that if I needed protection, someone t’ show me ‘round, there was a mercenary for hire here. Which is why I came up – I tried t’ hire Finn on the spot.” Her laugh was a little sheepish. Hancock breathed lightly through where his nose had been.

“Heard about that one,” he said, “Must have shocked the man to hear anything other than cryin’ or cursin’.”

“He didn’t seem keen on the idea,” Charity joked. She shifted a bit on the couch. “So there y’ have it. I’m here t’ earn money t’ hire myself someone who’s mean enough t’ do what I don’t want to. I s’pose that makes me a coward, don’t it?”

Hancock considered her expression. Before the ghoul purge in Diamond City, he’d heard lines like that – fishing for compliments with a loaded reel. Folks who wanted soothing and “no, of course I don’t”. Even back then it made his lip curl. But Charity seemed, just like earlier, strangely unafraid of him. As of the moment he would chalk it up to the fact that she probably just hadn’t heard of him. Then again, she’d also been stabbed by him. Which was the exact reason they were having this conversation now.

He sure was glad he took those mentats, cause this shit was confusing.

“It don’t really matter what I think of ya,” he said. “But, hell, if you _have_ to know, no. I don’t think it makes you a coward. I think it makes you smart. You’ve recognized your weaknesses and, while you’re trying to improve them, you’re getting someone to make sure you don’t die in the process. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

She blinked. Then smiled – a crooked little thing. “I … don’t think I ever thought of it like that.”

“Course you didn’t.” Hancock grinned back. “I’m a mayor. Inspirational speeches are part of the job description.”

There was that laugh again. Uneven, snorting, just a little hysterical. Hancock was a little grateful he hadn’t scared the damn thing out of her.

“Well, you held up your end of the bargain.” He stood from his chair and walked around until he was facing her. One ruined hand was held out for her own. “I believe I have a job for you, Miss Jones. Ever heard of Pickman Gallery?”

* * *

 Just one little job.

One little job, that happened to be filled to the brim with raiders.

No problem. No problem at all.

Charity held felt that Hancock was laughing at her, just a little bit, while they shook on the deal. She then realized why Nate always beat her at poker. She couldn’t keep her emotions off her face if she tried – she shuddered to think of how openly disgusted she must have looked when he popped those mentats like candy.

He’d offered to pay her a deposit, a little insurance so she could buy some proper self-defense, but Charity refused outright. She wasn’t going to accept payment for a job she hadn’t done. Hancock had just shrugged, said something about old-world values, and waved her out of the room. It didn’t mean that she didn’t eye KLE-0’s stash a little bit, though. One day. One day.

In a small, crumpled piece of parchment in her hand were the hastily scrawled instructions by Hancock’s messy hand, detailing where to find the gallery. She was sure he’d also written something to the side, but the letters were so hard to make out that all she could read was her name, a few hearts, and something about a “tour”. Whatever that was, she’d ask him when she was done.

The paper was shoved back down her pocket as she walked out of the state house. No sooner had her boots hit the steps than Charity had spotted a leaning figure, broad and yet seeming to try with all his might to sink into the shadows of the wall corners. Her eyes lit up.

“Finn!”

He jumped like she’d fired a gun. The watch started snickering, to which she shushed, because it wasn’t very polite to laugh at a man who was skittish. Even if he did look like she’d suddenly grown fangs and wings. No. Don’t laugh, Charity. It wasn’t funny. At all.

She trotted down the steps. The closer she stepped, the more Finn seemed to draw away. It was funny how he was running away without ever actually moving from his spot. To save his pride, Charity only stopped a mid distance from him, and withdrew his knife from her pocket.

“Thanks for this, by the by!” she said loudly. Finn’s caution changed to instant mortification. Despite his frantic hands, she continued, “Though y’ didn’t need t’ give it so indirectly – it ain’t like I was gonna be cross with ya if y’ came in person.”

Finn was glowing crimson. Charity frowned in confusion. He just growled, ran his hands over his face, and eyed the watch, all of whom were failing marvelously at containing their laughter. A few of them were already on the ground, shoulders shaking and hooting like owls. Charity wanted to whirl around, to ask them why exactly it was _funny_ that a man could be grateful, but Finn silenced her by a small jerk of his head to further down the alley, with less witnesses and more privacy. She rose a brow, but followed anyways.

“Now,” she said once they arrived, “Just what was that about? Did I miss somethin’ or-“

“Will you stop fuckin’ prancin’ around like that?” Finn hissed, “I didn’t – I didn’t give you that knife to go- ugh, I dunno, showing it off to everybody!”

“ … It’s a nice knife, Finn,” Charity deadpanned. Then, she blinked, realization smacking her like an ex. “Hold on. You’re embarrassed. That y’ gave it t’ me.” It all made sense – the “admirer”, the blushing, the packaging …

Finn rolled his eyes. “I see what you’re thinking. It’s not some fuckin’ school crush, get over yourself, lady. It’s just that I’ve got a business relyin’ on my reputation, and that business ain’t gonna float if people think I’m soft.”

“Oh, sure, mighty fine business all right,” Charity scoffed, “Scammin’ people of their hard earned caps.”

“Most of them ain’t earned it hard as you think, doll,” Finn shot back. “Look. Just, don’t wave that thing around all the time, yeah? Probably good on your end too.”

She eyed him. Finn wouldn’t do the same – in fact, he seemed to look anywhere _but_ her. Charity tested it by stepping in his line of sight. He looked to the left. She stepped there again, and he looked up. Resigning to the fact that she couldn’t fly, she settled for a huff and grabbed his chin, yanking it down.

“I’ll have a lot easier time believin’ y’ain’t got a crush if y’ _look_ at me, sugar,” she said. Finn growled and tugged his head out of her grip.

“You sure like to grab people, don’t you …” he muttered. “Nosy bitch.

“Rude brat.”

“Brat? I’m older than you!”

 “Oh …” Charity snorted, “Not by a long shot, honey.”

He scowled at that, thought about it for a bit, and seemed to give up. Finn rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey,” he started, “Hancock wouldn’t give me your name, and I guess you don’t have to either, and it’s not like I really give a shit at all, but if I keep calling you “blondie” then-“

“It’s Charity,” she answered with a smirk. “My name is Charity Jones.”

“Charity …” Finn repeated. One brow cocked. “Fuckin’ weird and yet it fits. All vault folks prophetic like that?”

She snickered. “Trust me, my folks thought it was an oxymoron.”

 “The hell’s that?”

“It’s … nevermind.” She shrugged. Charity waited a bit, and then when neither of them had anything to say, she made only the most awkward show of stepping away, hands behind her back while she walk-hopped back down the alley. “Well, apologies for the embarrassment, an’ uh, good day. Got a job t’ do now.”

“Where?” Finn asked and then seemed to curse himself for it. This boy really had some issues with self-honesty. “Uh. Just outta curiosity.”

Charity held up the paper. “Never been. Pickman Gallery, Hancock said. See you later!”

* * *

 As she trotted off, Finn could only stand there, mouth agape, gut clenched in what better _not_ have been worry.

“Fuckin’ hell, Hancock,” he whispered, “And you say _I’m_ harsh on newcomers …”

* * *

There were two raiders right outside the entrance. Charity’s fingers tightened on her gun even though she was still hidden, crouched behind the brick corner just ahead. One of them looked to be falling asleep on the job, standing perfectly still while their head nodded here and there. The other one was too busy inspecting their knives to notice. She could line the shot up perfectly, she realized.

 

_“Hold the gun like this,” she told Nate, “make sure y’ give support t’ the shoulder, an’ don’t be scared of the recoil.”_

_Nate, for all her instruction, looked a little unsure. He worked his teeth lightly over his bottom lip. “Charity, I’m really not good with guns …”_

_“If you’re gonna enlist,” Charity interrupted, gentle as she could manage, “Then you’re gonna need some practice. An’ don’t you think it’ll impress the superiors if you’re already a pro?” One of her fingers playfully poked at his nose, which he crinkled in response. She giggled. “Come on, stop sellin’ yourself short, darlin’. Just line it up at that can over there, okay?”_

_He took in a breath, probably more for dramatics than anything else, and held the gun up slowly. Nate steadied his arms, just like she’d said, breathed out, and …_

_The can flew off with a sharp ‘ting!’, careening somewhere into the dust. Charity hollered in success while Nate sheepishly smiled, lowering the gun immediately._

_“Look at that!” Charity called, “I knew y’ had it in ya.”_

_“I’m nothing compared to you, Cherry,” Nate ruffled her hair. He then handed her the rifle, jerking his head to the rest of the cans lined up. “Go on. Show me how it’s done.”_

_“Ain’t this supposed to be your practice?” she retorted, even if she was already reloading. Nate just shrugged, hands up in mock defense, and stepped back to the bench. Charity made quick work of the reload, then held the gun up with ease practiced from countless childhood memories. A breath in, out, and then one by one, the cans popped off the fenceposts, dead-center holes the giveaway of her craftsmanship._

_Nate was clapping when she finished. He stood up, waited for her to set the rifle to safety, and pulled her in to stroke her hair. Charity leaned into his touch._

_“That’s my little crackshot,” he whispered._

Charity felt wetness drip onto her hands. The tears were hastily wiped with the back of her knuckles and then she was aiming again, thankful that the sleepy Raider hadn’t thought to wake up. However, every time she lined up the shot, Nate’s voice was there like a vice.

                _That’s my little crackshot_.

She hissed and lowered the gun. Charity didn’t know how, but she felt mocked. Sleepy Raider shuffled awake and made somewhat of a show checking their gun, while Knives Raider was still, go figure, checking their knives. Neither of them were aware of her.

Holding in a groan, Charity slid back down against the wall, lodging her rifle against her shoulder. How was she going to do this? Disappointing Hancock was out of the question. It wasn’t that she thought, necessarily, that he’d hold it against her. But she wanted – no, she needed to prove she could do this. Who she was proving it _to_ was another question.

Okay, Charity, new plan. Hancock didn’t say she had to _clear_ Pickman Gallery. He just said she had to scope it out. See what was going on. So far, all she saw was that raiders were not poster children for security. If she could just get them away from that door …

A sign was hanging off the side of the wall, just adjacent to the guards. Charity lined it up and fired, sending it off its hinges and down to the sidewalk. Sleepy and Knives both jumped to attention, drawing their weapons and trotting around the corner to inspect. Oldest trick in the book. Good thing most books were burnt up.

She wasted no time in scuttling to the entrance. One sigh later and she was turning the handle, easing it open for fear of less trickable raiders waiting for her.

It was clear. She stepped inside and shut the door before her little friends found out the ruse.

Once the door clicked shut behind her, Charity immediately crouched, swinging her braid back behind her while she slid along the dusted floors. The architecture of the place was beautiful, even the parts wasted by the bombs – and somehow she didn’t think raiders chose this place for the resale value.

And then the _smell_ hit her. She choked, immediately covering her mouth with her bandana and pressing further against the wall, like that would ease the stench. Something _dead_ was in here. Dead, and artificial, preservatives wafting like morbid perfume. God, she knew they were a macabre bunch, but now it was just a matter of hygiene – did none of them mind this? How did people _live_ like this?

“Did they find him yet?”

Charity ducked back behind a table. Nobody had appeared yet, but she spotted shadows around the corner.

“No,” another voice answered, “Fucker’s gone silent. Think they chased him down to the basement or something – who knows.”

“Fuckin’ sicko,” the friend replied, “Pickman’s gonna pay for this.”

 _Pickman_ , Charity noted, _And this is Pickman Gallery. He must own the place_. Or whatever “ownership” meant in the wasteland. That meant this … wasn’t a raider hideout. They were _looking_ for him. He’d done something to them.

_What could he have done to an entire Raider crew?_

Carefully, she peeled into the next room over, watching the shadows on the hallway the entire time. The stench only got worse as she went. It pummeled through her bandana to the point where it was rendered useless, and all Charity could do was cover her mouth, hope for the best and try not to barf. Briefly, she wondered if she should have asked for a raise. Hancock be damned, the smell alone was worth charging for.

She decided she was safe for the moment. Still quiet, Charity turned on her heel-

Only to find the preserved, flower-ridden corpse of a raider, perched in a coffin like a statue. She nearly shrieked. Luckily, the hand on her mouth covered any such whimpers. It wasn’t the dead body that startled her, but rather the … craft of it, the way blood had been drawn in ways that were so obviously deliberate it was sickening. A bouquet of flowers was clutched between the dead hands. As if that made it any better.

Charity turned to the paintings on the wall. The stench was getting worse. Her curiosities were confirmed when she leaned in, spotting the way the red oozed into the canvas, thinner than paint and thicker than water. Blood. He was painting with blood.

So that’s why they called it a “gallery”.

 _Mission accomplished_ , she thought to herself, already making for the exit. _Creepy raiders want creepy revenge for creepy man making creepy art. I’m sure I can leave them to their devices._

And just as luck would have it, she didn’t reach that exit, because Knives chose that moment to open the door, boots clamoring on the wood.

“Hey, ain’t it time for one of you fuckers to change with- what the fuck?” He stopped, and Charity stopped, and the two of them stared at each other for a good three seconds, before he finally yelled, “H-Hey! Fuckin’, uh, PERSON OVER HERE!”

She hissed as the parade started. Charity broke into a sprint, bounding past the hallway where the two chatty guards were now scrambling for their pipe pistols. One of them lunged at her side but she evaded just in time, momentum sending him face-first into the wall. Skidding around the corner, Charity sped up the stairs, where surprise surprise, even more pissed off raiders were waiting, much more prepared. A bullet grazed her cheek. Taunting jeers and threats followed her while she ran, and one’s foot jerked out, catching her ankle and sending her tumbling to the ground.

“I got ‘er!” He yelled. Charity set her jaw as he leaned over her. “Now let’s see if-“

The butt of her rifle broke his nose with a definite _crunch_. She leaped out of his howl of pain and took off again. Another bullet grazed her side. One more tore up her thigh, decidedly deeper than the rest. The adrenaline kept her moving, but in the back of her mind Charity was aware that it was going to be a bitch to treat.

Shit, shit, shit, they were _everywhere_. She couldn’t even hide. It seemed like every corner she turned had another mottled, face painted raider staring back at her. This was a mistake. She wasn’t ready- 

“Found you, girlie!” One of them called. She cursed. “C’mon, ain’t even gonna shoot? Make it fun already!”

“We’ve got different definitions of fun, darlin’,” Charity muttered. She started backing up as he approached. There was a hole in the wall. She wasn’t sure if it lead anywhere, but she _was_ sure that it lead away from here, which was exactly where she needed to be. Her lips tightened. She swung her rifle around and, before the raider could laugh, placed two bullets just below his knees. He crumpled with a shout.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” she muttered, ducking in.

* * *

 The hole lead to a basement. Charity checked behind her, and once she decided that, for the moment, her bloodthirsty friends had lost her trail, she eased inside, tugging her bandana up once again to cover the dust flowing into her lungs.

The adrenaline was wearing off, slowly, sending Charity dull, painful throbbing to the cut on her thigh. She realized she had stimpaks – courtesy of Hancock. All it would take would be a small prick, and the pain would go away. At least for the time being. At least she’d be able to walk.

 _Come on, Charity_ , Nate’s voice urged her, _It’s good for you_.

That thought immediately stilled her hand from reaching in her bag. She set her jaw and continued onward.

If possible, the basement was creepier than the gallery. There was more … “artwork”, the further she went. Charity wasn’t sure if she was more disturbed by the subject matter, or by the _care_ that went into every piece, the way the bones were broken, the skin was sliced, the expressions were preserved so meticulously. Fear, all of them had. Fear, some anger, some remorse. It was like their last thoughts were painted across their faces. Nothing was written and she could read them clear as day.

The painting in the next chamber immediately drew her attention. Surrounded by candles, like some sort of shrine, it loomed down on her, haunting and bloody and horrid. Charity couldn’t make herself look away from it. She sucked in a breath. It took willpower for her to convince herself that this wasn’t skillful, this wasn’t artistry – it was just sick. Even if it was raiders.

“Where are you, Pickman?” a rough voice called from down the hall. She jerked. “Come on out, you slimy little …”

So they still hadn’t found him. Charity wondered why they even _wanted_ to, after seeing what he did to the rest of them. And this was one person, too. Could he even be called a person?

She didn’t need to find _them_. She needed to find an exit. Unfortunately, the only way forward seemed to be the tunnel from where the voice came, so it was there she shuffled, begrudgingly. Around every corner she peeked her head, and once the shadows had faded, she followed, careful not to trip the wires and mines littering the edges. They were trying to catch him like a mouse in a trap. What scared her more was that it apparently _hadn’t worked_.

She meandered until she was at the opening to a clearing, where she could see a large raider and a few other ones surrounding a figure she couldn’t quite place. However, they were grinning, wild and predatory.

“Found you, Pickman!” the head raider sneered. “Your little art projects end _here_ , bastard. Maybe we’ll make a few paintings of you, yeah? In your honor.”

The captive muttered something back to him, but his voice was so quiet she couldn’t catch it. Charity’s breath hitched. They were going to kill him. She couldn’t see much, but she could see that he was unarmed, and regardless of, well, _everything_ she’d seen before, her gut lurched at the thought of his body crumpling to the ground. The lead raised his gun. She heard the safety click.

“Hey there, uglies!”

She stood as they whirled, fumbling for their weapons, but she was quicker, quick lead filling their arms and knees and sending them to the sandy floor. Hopefully they would just think she had bad aim. Charity ran into the room, dodged a blow by another goon, and swung her rifle to clock him upside the head. He was out cold.

The last one – the lead one – was smarter, it seemed. He already had his gun out and pulled the trigger, and suddenly Charity felt the piercing, white-hot pain of a bullet in her leg. She shrieked, down on one knee, still clutching her gun. The raider laughed.

“Playin’ hero, are we?” he hissed. Charity raised her gun and he chuckled. “You ain’t gonna kill me. You didn’t even wanna kill my men.”

Charity gulped. He advanced. She felt her aim go shaky. The closer he came, the wider her eyes went, until she was barely aiming at all. He loomed over her.

“I’ll kill Pickman, but I think you’re first, girlie.” His grin stretched. “Consider it an appetizer.”

She yelled, pulled the trigger, and he staggered back with the brunt of it. A large red stain was quickly appearing in his gut. “You bitch!” he yelled, “Oh, you’re gonna pay for-“

“I’ll take it from here, killer,” a smooth voice interjected. Charity couldn’t respond before a pair of hands reached around him and a knife as going against his neck. A spray of blood coated her shirt before he went down. The room was silent. Silent like the bodies laying around her.

And in the light was standing the much less helpless than she thought captive, who pushed his short ponytail back over his shoulder, cleaned his knife, and walked back to where the Raider had stood. She didn’t know if it was the blood loss or shock, but Charity couldn’t make his face out very well. She briefly wondered if she was going to become “art” or not.

He waited, then crouched in front of her. Charity blinked with the sudden change, and her ability to see his face. He was … handsome, actually. Strangely handsome. Or, well, strangely well kept. Somehow that set her even more on edge. Especially with the way he smiled, appraisingly and without much regard to the situation.

“Hey there, killer,” he greeted. “Thanks for the rescue, but I had it under control.”

Charity tried to keep her breathing steady. “S’pose “control” means somethin’ different in- ah, damn, ouch ouch ouch …” And then, the combined efforts of the wounds on her side and legs suddenly made an appearance, sending Charity doubling over in pain. Her eyes squeezed tight while she hissed through her teeth.

“Now, that doesn’t look fun,” Pickman muttered. He seemed entirely unaffected, otherwise, by her pain. After a moment of deliberation, he asked, “Want some help, killer? Least I could do.”

“I’m- I’m _fine_.”

“If you say so. I’ll be on my way then. I suppose you can fight off the raiders that will, eventually, come looking for their boss, right?” Pickman grinned. “You seem so prepared as it is.”

“I …” Charity paused, frowned, then sighed. “F-Fine, yes. I could use some help.”

“Excellent.” And _that_ totally wasn’t the creepiest way to say that. Pickman leaned down, hooked his arms under her back and legs and hoisted her like she was nothing. It would make sense he was strong, she reckoned. Charity tried not to think about it while he deposited her on top of a steamer trunk.

Pickman was already digging through her bag. “Here we are,” he muttered, flicking the glass on the stimpak once. Charity stiffened. Her eyes wouldn’t leave that needle. Pickman, noticing the sudden quiet in her breath, followed her gaze, then rose a brow.

“You know,” he said, “I’m not going to kill you. Unless you’re a raider too.”

“It’s not-“ she cleared her throat. “It’s not that. I’m- I’ll be fine. Y’ don’t gotta … use that.” She motioned to the needle. Pickman looked almost comically confused.

“You don’t want me. To use a stimpak.”

“I just- I don’t wanna waste it.”

“See, I think you’re lying to me. And if you weren’t bleeding all over my trunk, darling, I’d have fun with that.” Despite his teasing, Charity could see a furrow in his brow – an edge of concern in his eyes. “I do enjoy stabbing people who tell me not to, but only certain kinds, and I’m afraid you’re not my type, killer. So I’m reduced to asking for permission.” He held up the needle again.

Charity stared at it. The thrumming of pain in her thighs and side, as well as the bullet, were getting too hard to ignore. It wouldn’t heal it, but at least she could talk. This was all for the sake of the mission. She had to grow. She had to _learn_.

“ _Fine_ ,” she spat with more venom than necessary, “But I’m not gonna look.”

“Fine by me,” Pickman muttered. Charity shut her eyes. She felt a tiny prick on her arm, and then chemical relief, flowing through her veins. Her muscles relaxed around the wounds. It still hurt, but distantly, like an old memory. She tried to keep her mind on the good – the relief, the lack of pain, the healing. It wasn’t going to kill her. She was still human. She was still-

_“Puttin’ that poison in your body,” Mama said, hand still latched tight on her wrist, “We don’t do that in this house.”_

_“Mama-“ she tried to protest, “Mama, my leg hurts-“_

_“An’ I’ll make it hurt more if you don’t put those pills away,” Mama hissed. “God ain’t meant for us to put nothin’ but His fruit in our stomachs. Now drop those things and deal with it.”_

Charity jerked up with a gasp. “I can’t- no, I’m sorry, get it outta me, oh _God_ get it out-“

Pickman’s firm hands landed on her shoulders despite her wriggling. Charity’s breathing only got quicker with the restraint, and soon she was clawing at his wrists, nails drawing blood at the thinner skin. Pickman sucked in a breath. It didn’t sound like he was in pain.

“Killer,” he tried to soothe, twisting his hands until he was holding her wrists, “Let it work through you. Come now. It’s not hurting you.”

“P-Poison,” Charity managed, eyes glassy, “Ain’t- ain’t meant for it, not right, get it _out_ -“

“Look at me.” He grabbed her face. Charity couldn’t turn her neck if she tried. His hawkish eyes bore into hers, searching for whatever reason she might have abandoned. “Look at _me_ , Killer. You’re not wherever you think you are. You’re here. You aren’t poisoned. Listen to my voice.”

There was a weight in his tone. Something anchoring her. Charity’s breathing slowed, just a bit, and her struggling calmed, until she was finally still in his hands. Those glassy blues still stared into his, though, like they weren’t quite seeing him. Pickman tilted up her chin.

“Better, Killer?”

She nodded mutely. He let go of her, cautiously, and Charity leaned back, needing the support only the wall would give her. The pain had faded entirely now, save for aches here and there. She was alright. She felt … alright.

For a minute or two, they just sat there, in silence. Pickman never stopped staring at her. Charity didn’t mind for a while, but then she was looking everywhere but him, wondering just what was so damn fascinating about her face. Then she realized she’d scratched him something horrible, and figured he’d earned the right to stare at her like a circus animal.

“ … Thanks,” she finally said, lowly. “I … I ain’t used t’ chems.”

“Who’d have guessed?” Pickman retorted. They both laughed lightly. Charity then groaned, running a hand through the hair that had come loose from the braid.

“I’m not very good at this …” she mumbled.

Pickman shifted, sitting down. “On the contrary, I just saw you incapacitate three raiders and shoot a fourth in the stomach. I’d hardly call that a failure.”

“Would y’ believe I didn’t come here t’ fight?” Charity tried. Pickman’s eyes told her everything. “Heh. Thought not. Honest, though, I didn’t. I was just supposed t’ find out what happened.”

“It seems my art’s been speaking for itself,” Pickman said. He tilted his chin haughtily. “Any constructive criticism?”

“Yeah,” Charity snorted, “It’s horrifyin’! Usin’ dead bodies an’ – even if they are raiders, can’t y’ just, at least, just _draw_ them or somethin’? Y’ had t’ go an’ … ugh.” Pickman seemed amused by her lack of word skill. She rolled her eyes. “I will say I ain’t never seen somethin’ like it before. Not just the medium.”

“Oh?”

She shrugged. “I still think it’s disgustin’. But … Maybe I’m gettin’ the message wrong, but you’ve got a theme goin’ on, haven’t you? Not just with Raiders.” Pickman didn’t interrupt, so she continued. “The … the faces on the bodies. Y’ mirror their last thoughts in their expressions, but then y’ adjust the bodies t’ contrast that. Like the one in the foyer. He looked horrified, but y’ posed him like a peaceful corpse in a cemetery. Flowers an’ everything. Like there was somebody who missed him.”

In the midst of her speech she’d looked away, so when she looked back, Charity found Pickman’s rapt attention, his eyes slightly wide. She rose a brow and he smiled in response.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met somebody who understands my art,” Pickman muttered. “Much less one who analyzes it like you do. What was your name, Killer?”

“It’s …” this was a bad idea, “Charity.”

“Charity …” something about the way he breathed it sent shivers down her spine. Pickman hesitated, then reached up, placing a lock of hair back behind her ear. She stiffened. “Let me thank you, Charity.”

“Depends on how y’ like t’ thank,” she murmured. Pickman only laughed. It sounded surprisingly normal for him.

“Don’t worry. Like I said, you aren’t my “type”. But I’d like to give you something.” From his pocket, he retrieved a key. “This opens a safe in the main gallery. Look behind “Picnic for Stanley”. And this …” From his other hand he offered the knife used to slash the raider’s throat, gratefully cleaned of blood. “Trust me, it’s not an ordinary knife.”

“What’s with me savin’ men an’ them givin’ me knives …” Charity muttered. She regarded them. She wasn’t sure if she ever wanted to go back in that room, with every body part and corpse littering the floors, not to mention the still angry raiders probably hunting for her hide. Then again, every rule of southern hospitality drilled into her core was telling her it was rude to refuse a gift. So she took both, and found herself smiling at him anyway. Pickman grinned back.

 “Thanks,” she said again. “Always happy t’ be a patron of the arts.”

 Pickman offered her a hand up. She took it, stood, then grimaced at the feeling of blood from her shirt. _That_ wasn’t going to be fun to clean. "You know," he started, "There's an escape tunnel out of here that leads to the street. If you don't fancy re-encountering your violent little friends, I'd suggest you follow."

“I … that sounds smart.” Charity nodded. “S’pose I will. But one thing …”

Pickman rose a brow. “Yes?”

“Stop callin’ me Killer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just realized I forgot a whole ass line at the end, so it seemed like Charity was saying "that sounds smart" to nothing. Fixed it now! Any thoughts you have are appreciated!


	4. Basic Decency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While in recovery from her actions at Pickman Gallery, Charity learns a little bit about self respect and survival instincts - of which she apparently has none.

“… Finn.”

“Yeah?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“And why can’t I be serious? What are you? The serious police?”

Fahrenheit’s eye twitched. She wondered if twenty-four was too young for retirement. Would Hancock even let her retire?

“You’re scaring the drifters like a pack of fuckin’ radstags,” she said. Finn graciously responded with a flick of his middle finger. Her eye twitched faster. It was going to vibrate off her damn face at this point.

Finn didn’t bother to move from his post – unofficial as it was – beside one of the pillars supporting the Goodneighbor gate. Normally, Fahr wouldn’t have had a problem, and neither would have Hancock. It wasn’t any more nefarious than what he usually was up to. In fact, he hadn’t even offered his “insurance” to any more drifters for a while … anyone would have said he was improving. Except for one small issue.

“If you don’t stop haranguing every newbie that comes through about Charity, you’re losing your teeth privileges.”

Finn’s eyes narrowed. He leaned off his spot, rising to his full height – a good three inches above her own. His lip curled.

“I ain’t “haranguing”,” he growled. “I’m just _curious_.”

“Keep your _curiosity_ back in that alley where you belong,” Fahrenheit hissed. “It’s not our fault you miss your little girlfriend.”

“Oh, original,” Finn sneered. “I’m just makin’ sure she hasn’t trashed my knife yet.”

“Weak excuse, Finn. Even for you.”

Fahrenheit watched the blood rise to his face. Something told her it wasn’t entirely from anger. If Hancock hadn’t given her explicit orders not to slit his throat ( _yet_ , he’d mentioned) he’d be crimson on the pavement, but her hand remained unfortunately stilled, no matter how it twitched for her knife. Or her gun. Or her other knife. Or her other … well, the point was made.

“Just you wait,” Finn said, “One day, Hancock ain’t gonna be around, and _that’s_ when I’m gonna-“

“HELLO?”

They both jumped, Fahrenheit’s gun drawn like lightning to the source of the shout – the gate. Finn was at the ready with his blade. Then, something registered, and Fahrenheit found herself lowering.

“Doesn’t that sound like …”

Charity’s fist connected with the metal door, sending a loud _twang_ through the gate. “Y-Your gate is mighty nice an’ all,” she called, and her voice sounded pained, “B-But, uh, a gal’s kinda got a bullet in her leg an’ is quickly realizin’ stimpacks got expiration dates. Mind openin’ up?”

Fahrenheit looked at Finn, and Finn looked at Fahrenheit, and neither of them said anything before she finally stepped back and waved him through with only a _little_ mockery behind it. “Your damsel awaits.”

* * *

 

“I told you …” Hancock started, “To scope it out.”

“I …” Charity cleared her throat. She was starting to get friendly with this cot blanket. “I did scope it out.”

“Yeah, head fuckin’ first it seems.” Hancock scoffed. “Why do you have to be injured every time you’re in my house?”

She managed a small shrug, biting on her lower lip. “At least I’m consistent?”

Hancock didn’t seem to appreciate her consistency. His arms were folded against his duster, one scarred finger tapping on his bicep to a rhythm she couldn’t place. Charity felt scolded. Despite her instincts telling her to keep inspecting the floorboards, she lifted her eyes to meet his, blue to black, keeping her chin level. God, his gaze was unreadable. It was probably the lack of pupils.

This couldn’t go on forever. Even if it could, Charity wasn’t keen on letting it. “Respectfully, Mayor,” she began, tone as diplomatic as possible, “I did my job. An’ I don’t think I did a half bad one, either.”

He smirked and there was no joy behind it – maybe mirth at the most, with the edges of his upper lip baring the slightest hint of teeth. “She calls comin’ back here with a bullet in her leg and bleedin’ to Hell and back “not half bad”. Thought you didn’t do chems, sister.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Charity bit back. Her chest grew tight with indignation. “Y’ gave me a job an’ I did it! What’s it matter if there was a lil’ crossfire?”

“I hate that martyr shit,” Hancock growled back. He leaned over and grabbed her wrist. His grip wasn’t bruising, but it was firm, and he twisted it just enough to show the bruises from her little escape route. “I’ve got a vaultie here who nearly killed herself doin’ a job _I_ assigned to her, and she thinks that I’m just gonna let that shit slide?”

Charity frowned. She knew better than to try to tug away from him – he was strong, and not letting go until his point was made. Apparently, at least half of him was aware of his own strength and corrected it, she noted as she could still feel her pulse, rapid and steady. That much alone was relieving. It didn’t mean, however, that she was suddenly fond of men who grabbed women when things didn’t go their way. The world could end and start again, but men were always men, and that would never change.

So she glowered at him, and Hancock seemed a little surprised. Charity couldn’t help but sneer. “I was raised right, so I’m gonna ask as politely as possible.” The hand he held tightened into a fist. “Get those damn hands off me an’ fix that tone when speakin’ t’ a lady. _Mayor_.”

He seemed to become aware of himself. Hancock released her, though looked no less angry, and in fact seemed a bit more frustrated than before. Charity scoffed and snatched back her wrist to rub where he’d held. It was tempting to snark at him and yet there was something lodged in her throat, keeping her thoughts in her head where they belonged. Hancock … wasn’t looking at her. Or, well, he was, technically. Charity wasn’t sure he was actually _seeing_ her, though. They sat in silence for a few moments. He was the one to speak first.

“I’m sorry.”

“An’ if y’ think that- wait.” Charity blinked several times. “Sorry?”

“… Yeah?” Hancock said, more confused than her. “I- should I not be?”

“No, it’s not-“ her brows furrowed. “I’m. Uh. I’m surprised.”

“What, people don’t apologize in Sanctuary?” Hancock joked, that tense in his shoulders quickly deteriorating. She must have been looking at him like a brahmin with more heads than normal, because the little spark of humor in his eye was quickly replaced with concern. “You don’t- aw, shit, did I scare you that bad?”

“What? No, of course-“ And then she realized how hot her eyes were, and how wet her cheeks were becoming. Charity touched her face in wonder. “No, I didn’t- y’ didn’t scare me, I don’t … I don’t know why I’m- what’s going on?”

“Here, damn,” Hancock muttered, handing her a rag from his coat. “Come on, now I’m really gonna look bad.” A smile was trying desperately to grow on his lips, but it kept being overcome by lines of worry around his jaw. Charity took the rag, mopping up her eyes lightly, and handed it back – but he motioned for her to keep it.

Had she really started crying? Why? He hadn’t scared her. Charity knew what fear felt like – what a specific fear of a specific man felt like. She felt … defiant, maybe. Angry. But not fearful. And yet all it took was for him to say sorry, and her throat got tight like it took the privileges for air right from her lungs.

“I didn’t mean to sound like that,” Hancock continued quietly. “Shit, I- I should’ve calmed myself down. This ain’t much of an excuse, but I was just, ugh. I was worried.” When he was sure there weren’t any more waterworks, he continued. “You told me you didn’t like killin’, so I thought just a reconnaissance job would be safe enough, and then you come back with bullet holes and gashes and I just …” something heavy in his sigh, so heavy it made her lean with him. “It’s not just about my pride. I’m not a tyrant. I just didn’t want to be the kinda ghoul that gets good people killed because it benefits him.”

“Hancock …” Charity started, and found she didn’t know how to finish it. She just stared at him, more confused than anything. She knew, in the back of her mind, that what he was saying was good. Respectable. An apology. And, she realized, that’s what was confusing her the _most_.

“I don’t think that I … expected ya to apologize,” she explained.

He rose a brow. “What, I surprised you to tears? That’s a new one.”

“I think I’m the most surprised outta both of us,” she managed, chuckling. “But, well, don’t let the tears fool ya. I do appreciate it. Thanks.”

“Sister, what did we say about thankin’ people for basic decency?” Hancock said. His chiding was entirely playful. “Pity your husband if he ever says sorry. Man must be married to a walkin’ heart attack.”

Charity suddenly grew stiff. Her eyes averted to the floorboards once again, locked on the dried grain of the wood, swirling around abstractly. “Nate didn’t say sorry.” She pursed her lips. “Ever.”

Hancock blinked. “Didn’t?”

“So!” Charity turned back to him. Her sudden cheerfulness made Hancock twitch a little in his seat. “I hope I didn’t get blasted t’ hell an’ back for nothin’ now. Do y’ wanna hear what I found?”

“Shit, all this sap and I clean forgot there was a job.” Hancock snickered. “Sure. Promise not to bitch this time.”

“Don’t make promises y’ can’t keep,” she shot back. They were both grinning. Charity shifted a bit, like the story needed accommodating. Christ, it probably did. “So, this is how it went …”

* * *

 

Hancock was perched with his hands clasped together, hiding his mouth while his eyes showed every inch of disgust possible in the human muscle range. It was almost impressive, really. He didn’t know what was disturbing him more – the subject matter, the fact that Charity had to _experience_ that subject matter, or the fact that she was describing it like a trip to the fucking park.

“-An’ then I found ‘em cornerin’ the man in the basement,” she continued, “an’, well, I couldn’t just let ‘em slaughter him, so I went in an-“

“Hold on, hold on,” Hancock held up his hand, “Charity, _please_ tell me that bullet didn’t come from you savin’ a _serial killer_.”

“…” Her tongue worked around her mouth while she blinked owlishly. “Alright. I won’t tell ya.”

“Christ …” He rubbed his temples. “I won’t bitch, I won’t bitch …”

“Told ya it’d be hard,” she teased. Hancock wasn’t sure if she deserved a raise for her snark or a demotion for it. “Anyways, he wound up savin’ me in the end. They got a bullet in me, I got a bullet in his gut, an’ then Pickman uh. Ended it.” The awkward way in which she finished was almost funny, if Hancock wasn’t so disgusted. “He patched me up with what we had after that. Thanks for the stimpack, by the by.”

“Basic decency, like I said,” he reminded. “I’m just glad you thought to use them this time.”

And then she decided she wasn’t going to look at him anymore. Hancock was suddenly less interesting than the peeling wallpaper. “Mmhm.”

“… Charity.”

“Mm?”

“You did use at least one stimpack _before_ you nearly died, right?”

She didn’t answer. Hancock was now less interesting than the wallpaper, the floorboards, and every object in his general vicinity other than himself. There was a special kind of frustrating that Charity was proving to be, and he wasn’t sure if it was impressive, or just plain annoying, or some hellish cocktail of the two. Knowing his luck, it was the latter. This girl was going to send him through _so_ much fucking Jet.

Charity just shrugged. “My point is, while his art was … well, _that_ , he wasn’t really doin’ much different than anyone else. He said they’re the only ones he – ugh – _uses_.”

“Sure, let’s all trust the man with bodies in his foyer,” he muttered. Charity stuck her tongue out at him. He flicked it with his thumb and forefinger, making her yelp. “You did your job, though, and apparently not even bullets are gonna dissuade you from that. Despite my earlier actions I respect that.”

She smirked. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Hardy har, laugh it up.” Hancock stood. “I know we decided on an amount, but if I don’t give you a raise then Finn will have my hide, if my conscience don’t get it first.” She started to protest and he put a finger on her lips. Charity’s cheeks colored lightly. Hancock couldn’t resist a smug little grin. “Ah ah ah. Keep protestin’ basic decency, sister, and I’m liable to keep you here until you learn better.”

There must have been something he didn’t mean to release in his tone, because her cheeks only went redder, like little apples against freckled vanilla. Hancock was sure she’d mirror his duster if he kept this up. “… That was supposed to be a threat, you know,” he whispered, “So don’t look like you like it so much.”

She spluttered. Hancock narrowly dodged a slap to his arm, cackling as he all but danced back to the stairs. Charity stuck her tongue out again now that she wasn’t in flicking range.

“Hancock!” she called just before he descended. He stopped, tricorn just barely peeking above the bannister. “When I came in, Finn, well … he seemed worried.” God, her voice was so genuine it hurt. “Can y’ tell him I’m alright? An’ that he can visit if he’d like.”

“Really, Finn,” Hancock muttered, “You ain’t deserved this.” With a sigh, he raised a hand to her, signaling his agreement. Hancock descended the stairs.

God. And it was only the afternoon.

* * *

 

“Hancock,” Fahr greeted the minute he returned, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to slit Finn’s throat for a bit.”

“If I can’t, you can’t, Fahr,” Hancock grumbled. He already felt a headache, so he reached in his desk for a cannister. Fahrenheit watched like a hawk while he pushed the Jet into his lungs, and suddenly the world was a little slower, a little more tolerable, a little less _frustrating_. “That’s the shit …” he muttered. After a few moments to savor, he looked back up. “Now then. What’s all this about?”

Ooh, Fahrenheit didn’t look happy. Well, she never looked happy without a little blood on her hands, but she _really_ didn’t look happy now. Hancock didn’t know why, out of all the brats in the world, he got stuck with the one convinced she’d implode if she smiled for more than half a second. Half of him wanted to piss her off more, just to see it. The other half of him – the one not on Jet – knew that was a good way to lose an irradiated finger.

“It’s not about Finn, is it?” he muttered. “Not really.”

She stared back at him, cool as ever. Fahrenheit then sighed, shut the doors behind them, and returned to her favorite spot on the couch. She was taller now, legs crossed like some demure parody of class, but Hancock could still remember the tiny little imp of a girl who curled so tightly into that couch corner he was scared the cushions would eat her.

Unsympathetic to his musings, Fahr just gestured for him to sit across from her. He did, with only a little parading.

“It’s not Finn,” she confirmed once he’d sat, “And I see what you’re thinking – it’s not Charity, either. I don’t have a problem with her.”

“Yeah, cause you think she’s cute.” He snickered at the red in her cheeks. “Come on, you ain’t the only one. You’re also obvious as shit.”

“My _point_ is,” Fahr continued, with no small amount of venom, “Finn isn’t the only pawn in this town that’s got eyes on the kingpiece. You know that, Hancock. So why haven’t you done anything about it?”

He shrugged. “What’s there to do? People get pissed off in one way or another, if they wanna be. I don’t control that shit.”

“Maybe you should _start_ controlling it.” Hancock started to protest before she held up a hand. “Oh, calm the fuck down. I’m not telling you to be a tyrant. If you tell me that story about Vic one more time-“

“It’s a good story, Fahr,” Hancock could see her eye twitching. God, it was so funny when her eye twitched. “Y’see, it was back when I was even more devilishly handsome than now, a smoothskin of only-“

“Oh, Jesus I hate you,” she grumbled. “This isn’t about that. I’m not saying control the whole game. You’re not like your brother. I’m just saying, I don’t know, bare your teeth a bit more. Finn doesn’t deserve the food in his stomach, but he has a point – you used to be _dangerous_. This is a city built on danger.” Something in her eyes darkened. “You’re getting too comfortable.”

“And nobody in power deserves to be comfortable for long,” he said with a sigh. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“Just promise me you’ll _think_ about it.” She stood. “I’m going to go do rounds. Coming with?”

“Meet me outside.” Hancock stood as well. “Lemme get some more Jet in, and I’ll be right there.”

“Junkie,” she spat without much vice, heading out the door. Hancock listened as the sound of her boots slowly faded, like a record at the end of the last track, until she was out of his earshot, and he, consequently, out of hers. His fingers twitched as he lit a cigarette, inhaled, then blew out. The resulting smell of nicotine cleared some of his senses while he lazily drew open a drawer, shuffled through odd papers and knickknacks, fingers eventually grasping a small, bright red feather. Something in his heart, his no doubt corrupt and try-hard heart, tugged. Hancock puffed once more on the cigarette.

“Can’t get too comfortable,” he repeated, “Not for too long …”

* * *

 

“Uh, doll?” one of the watch called, watching Charity (slowly) descend the staircase, “I don’t wanna come off pushy or nothin’, but Hancock said your leg-“

“Well, it ain’t Hancock’s leg, now is it?” Charity laughed. “Darlin’, keep this a secret? Just between us? That attic’s just dreadful.”

“Well, I mean,” his obvious flush told her she’d won, “I suppose what he don’t know won’t hurt ‘im.”

“Thanks, sugar.” She risked a wink before reaching the bottom. Thank God for easy men. Once the coast was clear, Charity eased open the front door, and breathed a lungful of fresh air that didn’t stink of tired drifters and bomb dust. Her leg still protested like a cat to water, but the bullet was out, and though she’d adamantly refused every stimpack frustratedly offered by Hancock (who seemed more in awe than annoyed, at this point, that she kept refusing), Charity’s pain was overwhelmed by the fact that she’d survived. She’d _survived_ nearly dying, and it filled her with a strange kind of adrenaline she could only assume came from battle alone. Something in her wanted more. She was suddenly grateful for her injury acting as an anchor against that.

The wall was uncomfortable, so she hobbled to the bench and plopped down. A few more watchmen greeted her cordially, and to their credit, only eyed her injury with _slight_ concern. She nodded back to them with a playful salute. A girl just needed some fresh air every now and then – was it that bad?

“Are you even supposed to be up?”

Finn was leaving Kill or be Killed, and had stopped dead on the shop boundary, eyes locked on her leg. Charity sheepishly shrugged.

“As Hancock said,” she laughed, “I scoped it out. Headfirst. With a lot of bullets. Mostly aimed at me.”

Something about Finn was unreadable as he came closer. He didn’t even seem to be listening to her, really. When it was a good few seconds after she’d finished talking, however, he finally seemed to realize that, hey, this was a conversation, and snapped to attention. “Uh, right,” he said eloquently.

“… You alright?” Her brow furrowed. “Finn, about the gate earlier, I didn’t mean t’ scare ya-“

“You didn’t,” he shot back. Finn struggled with his expression in his next sentence. “God, I mean – I just wasn’t expecting you to come back fuckin’ shot to hell and somehow still walking. Hell, most of us weren’t really expecting you to come back at all.”

She snorted. “Hancock wouldn’t send me on somethin’ dangerous,” she said as she waved her hand, “I did this all on my own. _His_ mission was just reconnaissance.”

“ …That what he told you, huh?” Finn said, voice soft. There was that unreadable expression again. Except, this time, Charity was unnerved with how much he _was_ seeing her. “And you believed him?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” she shot back. “That’s what it was, honest.”

Finn’s resulting snort of laughter was anything but charming. It ended with a small hiss, a curl of his upper lip that she swore bore fangs. He looked around, pursed his lips, then sat down next to her. A little closer than she realized he was comfortable with.

“So he knew this place was loaded with raiders,” Finn said, “But he didn’t offer to give you backup? Not even a watchman or two?”

Something about his tone of voice … Charity shifted. “It’s not like he thought I’d be fightin’. Ain’t no need t’ waste resources.”

He let out another bark of laughter. Fangs again. “Ha! Right, because he cares so much about _resources_. Tell me, doll, what makes you think he couldn’t have had that scoped out earlier, huh? Or that he didn’t do it already?”

“I …” God, was he always this close? “I suppose he just didn’t have the time-“

“But he just happened to have it, the minute you asked for the job, yeah? Face it, Charity.” Finn’s voice was practically a hiss. “He’s playin’ you. You’re a cheap newbie who nobody would miss if you messed up, and like I said, nobody expected you to come back. We _all_ knew the rumors about Pickman Gallery.”

“Maybe he just felt confident in me.”

“Oh, sure,” Finn muttered, “He felt confident in the last guy he sent, too.”

“The last guy?” Her brows furrowed. Finn grinned wider.

“Tell me, Charity,” he purred, “Was it _just_ raider corpses you saw in that house?”

Her mind flashed to the foyer. One of the only bodies not artfully constructed by Pickman’s hand, laid flat on the floor, his expression of terror genuine, undisturbed …

She went pale. Finn’s eyes flashed. His breath was practically ghosting on her ear.

“It’s all an act, Charity,” he said, “That whole ‘of the people, for the people’ bullshit. Hancock don’t care about you, or me, or anyone else here. He just wants to know he can stay comfortable, so he sends disposables, people like you, and when they don’t come back? He’ll send another, until the job gets done. But he’ll never leave that cozy little office to get his hands bloody _himself_.”

Somewhere along the way, Finn’s arm had crept around her shoulder like a snake, and his hand was now spread on her bicep, fingers locking onto her flannel shirt. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. Though she didn’t look at him, didn’t even spare her eyes toward his figure, she felt his hot gaze hungry on her neck, her jaw, burning into her skin like a brand. Charity was suddenly very aware of her injury, and her lack of speed. The watchmen all had their eyes on her, fingers ready on their triggers. She breathed a small sigh of relief. She wasn’t totally alone.

“Finn,” Charity started, peeling his arm off her shoulder, “I got no doubt you’re frustrated. An’ frankly, I’m not gonna pretend t’ understand everythin’ ‘bout this town, or its mayor, or its citizens.” Once she’d given him back his arm, Charity put a few inches of distance between their bodies. “But if I can be honest, I think you’re wrong. The man who’s sat by my bedside because I got a penchant for trouble ain’t neglectful. He ain’t uncarin’. And he sure as hell ain’t that kinda _tyrant_.” Even Finn seemed to flinch a little at the word. “I’ve met … I’ve met a lotta bad men in my life, y’know. Maybe I’ll tell ya ‘bout them someday. But he’s not one of them. Y’know,” a little ruefully, Charity smiled, leaning in, “I don’t really think y’ are either.”

Finn spluttered. He stood, all vitriol and fanned fire, growling. “Aw, fuckin’ forget it. I shoulda know better. They always fuckin’ take his side. Just wait,” one finger jutted out to her, “He’s gonna get complacent, he’ll fuck up, and when I’m mayor? You’ll be goddamn sorry.”

“Let me know when that happens,” she said coolly. Finn growled again and stalked off. Charity sighed in relief, flopping back against the bench, and stared up to the evening sky. It was growing hazy now, red and orange and a little bit of purple, though she couldn’t see the sunset for the tall buildings. One thing she missed about the countryside. Along with everything else.

“Good job holdin’ your own, doll,” one of the watch called to her, “Glad he didn’t scare ya off.”

Charity shrugged. “Takes more than that t’ scare me, darlin’,” she called back, “Why, you gonna miss me when I’m gone?”

The rest of the watch laughed, though they were a little pink in the face. Charity laughed with them. The trepidation she’d felt earlier was lifted, and with it just a bit of her worries. For now, she didn’t have to do anything. She could exist, here in Goodneighbor, at least for a little bit – the world around her would wait. It had waited for 200 years, after all. What was a few more days?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally gonna make this chapter SUPER long, but I realized it made more sense just to break it in two, so I'll be uploading the next part soon enough. Thank you!


	5. Wishful Thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charity's ready to get back out there, though maybe with a little less gunfire this time. But nonviolent employment runs low in Goodneighbor, so she's forced to do what nobody wants to - be alone with her thoughts. Luckily Fahrenheit is there to realize she really deserves a raise.
> 
> \- Not trigger warning, but Nate is shown with, once again, some kind of shitty attitudes. More of just a warning to people who are sensitive to that.-

“You good to move around, sunshine?” Hancock muttered. He furrowed the mottled skin of his brows while Charity tested her weight on her thigh. A small, dull stab of pain reminded her of her hubris, and when she winced, Hancock’s hand involuntarily twitched. He wondered just how frustrating someone had to be to give a _ghoul_ heart problems.

“If I don’t start walkin’ sometime soon,” Charity muttered, “I’m liable t’ start growin’ moss.”

“Rather you mossy than murdered,” he said. “You know I ain’t mindin’ if you stay just a bit longer. There’s an open room at the Rexford, I’m pretty sure.” Hancock rushed to get his words out before she began to argue. “I’m payin’, it’s just ten caps, and you ain’t gonna argue with me.”

That shut her mouth. Hancock had come to realize that if she didn’t do that little thing with her cheeks every time she got mad – that little puff, twist of her lips, the way she squinted – he wouldn’t have gotten so damn addicted to annoying her. Part of him hoped, one day, that he’d meet this “Nate” of hers, just to see which lucky bastard had the privilege of making her mad all the time.

“Mayor-“

“ _Hancock_ , doll. Ain’t no title necessary with you.”

Charity rolled her eyes. “Sure lucky you’re cute.” Her finger poked at his shoulder, to which Hancock pivoted his whole body like it was loaded with dynamite. That earned him a giggle at the dramatics.

“I was gonna say the same about you,” he muttered. And there went that pretty flush of her cheeks. Hancock had never been more disappointed that a woman was married in his life. Or more proud, he supposed, that he could even swing the taken ones. He wasn’t no homewrecker, but he’d be lying if that blush wasn’t a _little_ satisfying.

Charity was the first to shock herself out of their little moment. She tested her leg again, and when it satisfied, she set about gathering her things and the bag of caps he’d given her for the job. “I’ll take the room, if y’ _insist_ ,” a grin thrown his way, braid over her shoulder, “But I’m still gonna look for some more work. Don’t look at me like that-“ shit, he couldn’t help it, “I’ll try t’ keep it peaceful.”

“In Goodneighbor? Peaceful? Wishful thinkin’, sister.” He chuckled. Charity snickered back.

“I’ve been told I’m good at that.”

* * *

 

Charity didn’t make it one step outside before her foot kicked a basket on the front door. Hancock was behind her and bumped comically into her back, stumbling back a little at the shock.

“Somethin’ on your mind, sister?” he rasped behind her. Charity ignored the shiver up her back and crouched to grab the basket. They both stared, then looked at each other, then looked to the basket again. It was almost shocking in its novelty – a small, untouched piece of wicker, with a few hubflowers arranged artfully in a bouquet at the center. There were a few … gifts, she supposed – a stimpack, a few bushels of corn, and a note, decorated with a suspiciously red heart. Charity’s gut was already heading south when she picked it up.

Hancock read it before she could finish. “Thanks, Killer?” he questioned, frowning. “Who’d I’d piss off this time?”

“Somethin’ tells me it ain’t for you …” Charity muttered. She felt his eyes on the back of her neck. “Ah, remember when I said Pickman, uh, got away?”

“…So not only did you save him,” Hancock said, slowly, “Now he’s hittin’ on you.”

“He’s not hitting on me!” Charity protested, looking back at the basket. “It’s just thanks, I’m sure. What’s remotely romantic about _corn_?”

“I dunno, the fact that it’s delivered in a basket. With a note. With a heart on it.”

“Oh, please.” She scoffed. “What I’m more curious about is how he got the darn thing in here. Say,” she lifted her head to one of the watch, “Did y’ see a man, low ponytail an’ weirdly clean, put this basket here?”

“Nah, doll,” he said, “If we did, Hancock would’ve known.”

“Hm.” Charity looked back at the mayor, who just shrugged in response.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t flattered. Charity was actually … a little endeared, despite what she hoped wasn’t blood on that heart. Out of all the traditions to survive the bombs, she wouldn’t have expected gift baskets to be one of them. The entire gesture was so Old-World that she actually felt her heart clench, and smiled, just a bit, at the care in the hubflower bouquet.

“It’s sweet,” she said softly. “There’s not a gal alive who don’t want flowers from time t’ time.”

Hancock was quiet for a moment. “That so?”

“Yeah.” Charity turned back to him. “Are you angry?”

“Why would I be angry?” Hancock retorted, but Charity only shot him a knowing look. He sighed. “Won’t lie, sunshine, I’m a little on edge that he snuck past my entire watch, but hell, that’s more impressive than anything. As long as you ain’t uncomfortable …”

“I’m not.” Charity looked back at the basket. “Not at all.”

FIVE DAYS LATER

She was so bored.

She was so. Goddamn. Bored.

Hancock’s caps had covered her living expenses for the past week, from food to drinks to the Rex, and it wasn’t that Charity wasn’t grateful, but the reliance was starting to creep at the edges of her conscience. It ate into her how mistrustful she was. He was a good man, a _really_ good man, who was apparently keen on making sure she didn’t show up in town with more bullet wounds than last time. Charity agreed on that front.

_“You don’t need to work, Cherry,” Nate’s voice told her over the phone, even and calm. “They’re sending the check in a few days. It should cover everything, doctor’s trips and all.”_

_“Darlin’,” Charity started, “I mean, can’t I just try a little-“_

_“Shaun’s gonna be there any day now. You need your rest.”_

_Charity worked her teeth over her lip. The bills in her hand which numbered higher and higher with the passing week crumpled under her tight grip. “I know that, honey, but I’m just worried ‘bout the house. A few odd jobs here an’ there, that can’t hurt, right? Please?”_

_“Charity.” He was thousands of miles away and she still flinched at that tone. “I’m coming home, and when I do, I don’t want to see a working wife when I get back. What are the neighbors going to say about me, making my pregnant wife work because my money isn’t enough? Am I not enough for you, Charity?”_

_She felt irritation bubbling up in her chest. Charity forced it down. “…No, honey,” she said softly. “Get home safe.”_

Charity sneered to nobody. Relying on men, and that’s where it got her. She wasn’t going to be swayed by another pair of pretty eyes again. All-black or not.

It was time to start looking for work. Lord knew she had enough caps to be comfortable for another week, but Charity didn’t want comfortable anymore. Nobody should be comfortable for long in a world like this. She’d been comfortable before, and what happened? The world actually ended.

Time to get to work.

She was clean enough, and grabbed a spare shirt, checking on the other that was still soaking out the bloodstains in her bathtub. And she’d liked that one, too. Maybe she’d spend a little more of her funds on a new wardrobe – one decidedly less bloody.

Once it was buttoned, and her hair was braided, Charity grabbed her rifle and opened the door. Into the hallway she went. The door had barely shut behind her when a raspy shout of excitement made her pivot in her boots.

“No way in Hell …” a ghoul rasped, dressed in a familiar trenchcoat and hat. “No. It can’t be.”

Charity smiled, a little nervously. “Can I help ya, sir?”

“You don’t remember me?” he said. Charity shook her head. “It’s – It’s me! I’m the one who sold you the vault!”

She furrowed her brows. That day was so repressed from her memory, so buried in the other layers of trauma she had to work through, that she honestly just stared at him for a good minute before it finally clicked. Her eyes widened.

“I- yes!” her hands went up to her mouth. “Oh, darlin’- y’ mean they didn’t let ya in? But y’ were an employee!”

“Hah, that’s what _I_ told them,” the rep responded. He was smiling, hiding so much anger that even Charity could see the curl of his lip. “But no. Sold five years of my life marketin’ their bullshit. Look where it got me.”

“Oh, honey …” damn it, she wanted to cry again. Charity really had to get that habit under control. She walked forward and grabbed his hand, earning a flustered little jump from the man across from her. “Y’ didn’t deserve this. I’m so sorry.”

“For what it’s worth, I appreciate it.” He chuckled. “But, you … you’ve got to be the most well-preserved ghoul I’ve ever seen. How did you …”

Charity gulped. The rep instantly recognized the tenseness of her shoulders, and held up his hands. “No, you don’t have to answer, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-“

“They froze us,” Charity answered. She could barely hear her own voice. “Told us they were gonna decontaminate us, an’ send us further – an’ then I couldn’t move.” Her eyes grew hot. “Some kinda experiment with biological preservation.”

“My God …” he hissed. “I can’t believe it. It’s bad enough living in this world, but waking up in it … You had a husband, right? And a little boy? How are they doing?”

Charity’s breath hitched and she slapped a hand over her mouth. The sobs were instantaneous. The rep spluttered, unsure if he should hold her shoulders or keep his distance, eventually settling for awkwardly splaying his palms like he could radiate comfort from his fingertips. “Oh-oh, I didn’t mean to- my god, I really mess everything up-“

“N-No,” she managed, “No, it’s not- I’m sorry.” One day. One day she’d like to go without crying. “I haven’t … I haven’t talked about it. T’ anyone, really.” She inhaled, one shaky breath choking and catching in her throat like a fish in a net, “Nate was killed.”

“Oh no,” he groaned, “Don’t tell me your boy, too …?”

She shook her head and sniffled. “Shaun was kidnapped. I don’t know who took him.”

“…” He stayed quiet. Charity might have seen his considering stare, the way his jaw clenched and worked around the thoughts behind his lips, if she weren’t so busy with her eyes shut and watering. After a few more moments of deliberation, the rep coughed lightly. “I realize that it might not be appropriate, but so few things in this world are, and, uh …” He shrugged. “Do you …want a hug? One relic to another?”

Charity smiled, laughed a little through her tears, and reached out her arms, bringing him in instantly. Her arms were strong, earning her a wheeze from him when he apparently didn’t expect what that thin muscle had in store. Though her shoulders were still shaking, the sobs had mostly stopped, leaving her content to let him wrap his hands around her too, rubbing his palm lightly along her shoulder blades. Somewhere in the back of her mind she registered how respectful he was being, keeping his touch strictly platonic. A gentleman was always a gentleman.

“Thanks,” she whispered, pulling away. “I ain’t hugged someone in a real long time. Goin’ on 200 years, now.”

He laughed. “Hey, that goes for both of us. Us ghouls ain’t really known for our squishy potential.”

Charity snorted in another laugh. He chuckled too. They just stood there like that, both laughing and smiling quietly, before she finally calmed and spoke up again.

“…I still live in Sanctuary, y’know,” she said, “A friend of mine is running a settlement there. If y’ happen t’ be looking for a place to stay …”

“No, I couldn’t ask you to do that.” He shook his head. Charity scoffed good naturedly.

“I insist.” Her grin stretched. “Besides, we’re still rebuildin’. We could use any hands we get.”

“I…thank you,” he finally said. “I mean it.”

“A lesson I’ve learned by now,” Charity chuckled, “Is don’t thank people for basic decency.”

* * *

 

The Vault-Tec rep waved one last time, a little jaunty as he continued out the gates of Goodneighbor. Charity couldn’t help but smile, watching the metal close behind him. God, she hoped he’d be safe on his way over. He deserved something good in his life. They all did.

But the day was still young, good Samaritan work aside, and she still had plans to find another job. Maybe one with less bullets this time.

Now, what could she do? There was always handywork. Charity was good with a hammer and nails … but upon inspection, there wasn’t much of that going around. Most of the workers seemed to have their jobs covered and would probably be suspicious of her trying to join in anyways. Scratch that.

Next, there was always the establishments around – she was fairly certain KLE-O and Daisy didn’t need help, and she’d asked Claire if the Rex needed another janitor, only to earn a frown and a quicker wave than usual out the door. Okay then. Asking Hancock was _out_ of the question. She might die of embarrassment if she had to sit through his flirting for one more hour. Even if Charity knew he meant nothing by it, she was _married_ for Heaven’s sake. A real wasteland gentleman, he was.

She hadn’t hit the Third Rail yet. Hadn’t visited at all, actually, despite having been in the town for a good part of a month. Which, she’d been told, was a shame – the town’s jewel, Magnolia, had to have been a sight for how they ooh’ed and aah’ed about her. And people talked in bars, more than they talked in streets. There had to be _something_ for her there.

Charity knew, though, that going to a bar during the daytime would get her less than she’d already found so far. Well, she’d gone this far doing nothing – a few more hours would have to do.

* * *

 

Fahrenheit frowned around her bourbon. Though Whitechapel Charlie didn’t have a face, she felt a little like he was smirking at her, and was compelled to throw him a finger right at his chrome-plated ass. Or whatever passed as an ass on him.

“Hard day at work, love?”

“Peachy.” She down the glass and nodded at him for another. With only a little grumbling, Charlie poured, then slid it over to her waiting hand. For the sake of Hancock’s tab, Fahrenheit slowed her sips. A little bit.

When Hancock had come back for the rounds, he’d been quiet. Not that Fahrenheit would ever complain about him shutting up, but it was the kind of quiet that made her twitchy, like there was something he was keeping from her. She didn’t pry. Less out of respect for his privacy and more out of curiosity for what he’d say when trying to cover it up. They’d completed their rounds that way, all the way around the town, with him quiet as a goddamn mouse.

It pissed her off.

He hadn’t taken her suggestion seriously. Fahrenheit could feel it. Hancock didn’t want to move. For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out _why_ , and when she couldn’t figure something out, she only got angrier. When she got angry, she drank. Thus, her fourth glass of bourbon.

“This seat taken?”

“No, but fuck off anyway,” she slurred. When she still sensed a presence near her, her scowl deepened and she jerked her head to see who the joker was now. “I said-“

Charity stood there, eyes a little wide, but otherwise unaffected by her snark. She bit her lip. “Fahrenheit, was it?”

“…Charity,” she greeted. “You don’t come here. At all.”

“Goodness, hope that’s not an order,” she joked, testing the waters. Her wide blue eyes kept flicking to the stool, then back to her, back and forth like there was still a chance. Fahrenheit considered it. Considered telling her to fuck off, and let her drink herself into a stupor.

“…You drink?” Fahrenheit finally said, motioning to her cup. “I don’t know what they’ve got in those vaults, but this is real shit. I’m not interested in sitting next to someone who can’t handle it.”

Charity smiled, slowly, and sauntered into the barstool. One of her denim-clad legs crossed over the other. She leaned her jaw on her hand. “Darlin’,” she started, “I can handle more than you think.”

No wonder Hancock kept complaining she was married. Charity didn’t seem remotely aware of how she sounded. Fahrenheit … considered the offer, eyed her up, hardly minding how Charity gulped under her direct gaze. The girl didn’t even do chems.

“I don’t do chems,” Charity, the sudden mind-reader, piped up, “But as far as I’m concerned, alcohol’s natural enough. An’ besides, I know someone who needs a drinkin’ buddy when I see ‘em.” She grinned up at Charlie. “What’s your strongest?”

The surly Mr. Handy scoffed. “Not sure you’re ready for the “strongest”, love. Don’t get so cocky.”

“Nah, Charlie,” Fahrenheit interrupted, “Let her have it. Let’s see how vaulties hold their liquor.” Her steely eyes never left Charity, who was grinning dazedly like she’d won the lottery. This girl was strange. Fahr had met a few vaulties before, scared nearly all of them, and it wasn’t just that Charity was so brazen that was throwing her off. Something about her just seemed … alien. No, not alien. Old? But she was practically her age. Experienced? No, she came back with bullets in her because she didn’t know how to kill.

What _was_ it about her?

Charity caught the glass as it was slid over. Gingerly, she rose it to Fahrenheit, and the two toasted. Fahrenheit was one sip in when Charity suddenly threw her head back and downed the glass in two large gulps. Fahr’s drink was suddenly the least interesting thing in that bar.

“Ah!” Charity laughed, wincing playfully at the burn, “Ooh, now _that’s_ a drink! Y' weren’t lyin’!”

She was still staring. Fahrenheit was, for the first time in her life, slightly afraid of a vaultie.

“…By any chance,” she started, “Are you into women?”

“Hm?” Charity turned. “What did ya say, darlin’? I was listenin’ t’ Magnolia.”

“Nothing.” Fahrenheit shook her head and coughed lightly. Charlie’s stare was heavy against her cheek, so she turned, eyeing Charity instead. “I have some questions.”

“Well, ain’t that a coincidence, because I do too.” Charity held her finger up. “Charlie, was it? Can I have two more?”

“Getting a little brazen, are we?”

“Oh, always, but one of them’s for her.” Charity nodded to Fahrenheit, who in return smirked. “I’m not going t’ leave a lady unsatisfied.”

Fahrenheit snorted in the process of her last sip. “You’ve _really_ got to watch your wording, Jones,” came her murmur. “Or you’ll be leaving plenty of people “unsatisfied”. Not just ladies.”

To her credit, Charity only laughed at that, and waved her hand like dismissing a bug. “Ain’t ya sweet. Now go on, y' had somethin’ y' wanted t’ ask, sugar?”

“Yeah.” Fahrenheit crossed her legs. “Why Goodneighbor?”

“Hm? What do ya mean?”

“Goodneighbor. You could’ve chosen way less dangerous cities, with people who don’t think your “no killing” rule is total horseshit. Why us?”

Charity thought for a moment. “Well, I’ll tell ya what I told the mayor – it’s because y’all think it’s, ah, nonsense, that I chose it. I know I’m gonna have t’ change eventually. I’m just … takin’ my time in the process.”

“Why’d you leave your vault, if life here is so hard?”

“I…had to.”

“You “had to” ain’t a reason, pawn,” Fahrenheit urged. She tilted her chin. “Elaborate.”

This frustrated the vaultie. Good. People were honest when they were angry. And if she got her drunk, to boot? Angry, honest, and probably a little bit horny, because that’s just how alcohol was. Fahrenheit didn’t see a problem.

“Let’s just say that there ain’t nothin’ for me back there,” she grumbled. “It’s not somethin’ I talk about easily.”

“Oh, my apologies for not being easy,” Fahr snorted, “Fine. Don’t tell me. Next question: Your accent is strange. Where are you from? And I know it’s not Sanctuary.”

“Texas.”

“What’s a Texas?” Fahr frowned. Charity just laughed and shrugged. “Is that a settlement?”

“Let’s just say it’s a loooooong way from here an’ leave it at that, yeah?” Charity sipped her drink. “My turn! How old are ya?”

“I – What?” she blinked. “That’s all you want to know?”

“Oh, I wanna know a lot, but it’s been buggin’ me more than anythin’ else,” Charity said. “Hold on, lemme guess. Twenty-two?”

“No.”

“Twenty-one?”

“No.”

“Twenty-“

“Christ, why are you going lower?” She rose a brow. “I’m twenty-four.”

God, it was like she’d given her a puppy. Charity lit up, beaming so bright Fahrenheit fought the urge to squint. No wonder Hancock called her “sunshine”. “We’re the same age! Would ya look at that!” Despite the fact that, to Fahrenheit, it was entirely unimpressive, Charity was giggling already. Maybe she didn’t hold her liquor as well as she thought. “Wait, wait – when were y’ born?”

“How the hell should I know?” Fahrenheit shot back with a little more venom than she meant. Hell if Charity was letting anything rain on her birthday parade, though. The blonde just frowned lightly, and leaned forward.

“Y’ don’t know when y’ were born?”

“Gee, that does get lost in the details when you don’t have parents.” She rolled her eyes. That called for another gulp of her drink. Charity, however, had already finished her glass, once again leaving Fahrenheit in awe.

“Now that’s just not right. We’re going t’ _make_ a birthday for ya.”

“Oh brother,” she groaned, “Is it any use telling you not to bother?”

“Nope,” Charity shot back. She motioned for another glass. Both Fahr and Charlie exchanged a _look_ , before, slowly, Charlie began pouring. At Fahrenheit’s very clearly communicated _what the fuck, Charlie_ , he did the Mr. Handy equivalent of a shrug and slid the glass over.

“What? She’s funnier than you are when you’re drunk.”

* * *

 

Three hours later and Charity had abandoned pretense of sobriety, instead settling for giggling madly while leaning over the counter. Three more empty glasses littered by her shoulders. Fahrenheit felt an easy smirk crawling up her lips as well as she finished her glass.

“An’- An’ so he tried t’ make me the _general_ ,” she slurred, “I mean, me! A general! A’ the whole damn Minutemen!”

“Hey, I bet you could do it,” Fahrenheit offered, “An entire army that doesn’t kill people. I’d pay to see that.”

“Is that really my reputation?” Charity asked. Fahr just nodded. The girl groaned, leaning her head back and exposing a delicate range of her neck. Fahr’s mouth went just a little drier. “I bet y’all think I’m so naïve.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“Least yer honest,” she grumbled. “I’m tryin’. I really am. It’s hard.”

“If you start crying, I’m leaving right now. I hate weepy drunks.”

“I think I’ve cried enough for a lifetime today,” Charity leaned up again. “Oh, I came here for somethin’ too – you’ve got a real way of distractin’ people, hon. Shame on ya.”

“I’ve been called a lot of things, but distracting is not one of them.” Fahrenheit chuckled. “You know, you’re alright.”

“Aw, only alright?” she giggled. Fahrenheit rolled her eyes.

“Don’t push it.”

“Right, right. Now, what did I come here for- oh!” Like a light switch she was back to her topic, “A job! Do y’know anyone hirin’ right now?”

“Well … “ Charlie started, “If I can interject …”

“I see what’s in that metal sphere, Charlie,” Fahrenheit growled. “Come on. She can’t handle Bobbi.”

“Who’s-who’s Bobbi?” Charity mumbled. “I can handle her! I can handle anythin’.”

“Sure you can,” she said without much confidence. “Bobbi’s a little too crooked for you, doll. You wouldn’t be interested.”

“I _told_ ya,” the vaultie groaned, “I’m improvin’! I can do crooked! An’ when I do y'all will say “wow, look at Charity, she’s sure wicked. I bet _she_ can pop a head off a harlot any day.”

“Pop a what off a what?” Fahr copied. She shook her head. “Even if I knew what that meant I wouldn’t say it. But, fine. You want to know? Go learn. Bobbi No-Nose, right behind the warehouses near the entrance.” She rose a brow. “Let _her_ fill you in on what she wants.”

“An’ I _will_ ,” Charity said with drunken confidence. Fahrenheit had all the drunken parts, but none of the confidence. Charlie coughed from behind her to her attention.

“Take her home, will you, love?” Charlie grumbled, “She’s about due for a cutoff. You are too.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Fahrenheit looped one arm around Charity who protested verbally but otherwise didn’t struggle. “C’mon, blondie. Time to go.”

“’Mmm …” she groaned, “I’m gonna do it. I will.”

“Yes, yes, you’ll show all of us,” she grumbled as she lugged her from the bar. Charity shook her head.

“Noo, not that, no,” Charity muttered. “’m gonna do somethin’ else.”

She watched her. “And that would be …?”

“Get ‘im. Gonna get that bastard.” Her closed eyes opened to look up, but Fahr wasn’t entirely sure what she was seeing. “An’ when I’m- when’ I’m crooked enough, when I ain’t scared no more …”

Something in her stomach was unsettled. She wasn’t entirely sure it was the alcohol. “What will you do, Charity?”

And then, suddenly, she _was_ seeing her, and the blue of her eyes looked less like the sky and more like hardened steel. “I’ll kill him. Plain an’ simple.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that! I'm gonna work on the next coming chapter, but I'd like to hear what you all think!
> 
> -Edit, fixed Charity's accent in some of the later parts and a few grammatical errors!


	6. The Not-so-Great Green Jewel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charity meets an friend while traveling for a job, while Hancock is growing increasingly concerned with what his vaultie is hiding from him. Fahrenheit just stays in bed.
> 
> -Trigger warning for: minor animal death and mentioned child abuse. Nothing graphic.-

“Well, well,” Hancock started, “ _Someone_ partied a little too hard last night. And that’s comin’ from _me_.”

Fahrenheit’s glare could have sniped a Gunner from a mile away. Hancock was suddenly very grateful that her gun was outside.

“Fuck off,” she tried to say, but it came off more as “Fuh’ ‘ov’,” because her head was still buried deep in her pillow. It really made for the most pitiful image he’d ever seen from his second-in-command. Like the true angel of murder she was, Fahrenheit just growled, flipped him off, and rolled onto her side. Any concerned boss would have let her stay like that – poor kid was obviously too hungover to function.

Luckily, he didn’t give a fuck.

He made himself comfortable against the doorframe. “What was that? Gotta start enunciatin’, kid. Can’t have my guard going around speakin’ improper.”

“I’m going to enunciate my boot into your ass if you don’t get out of here right now.”

“Wow, a full sentence and everything! I knew you were faking.” His grin was mile-wide. Fahrenheit spared the smallest moment from her stupor to glance over her shoulder, glare again, and then turned right back, moaning as a ray of sunlight pierced her closed eyes. Goodneighbor’s resident terror tugged her blanket over her head. Shit was almost cute.

He watched her for a bit like that. It was too bad that Fahrenheit was covered up, because she missed the way his eyes softened, those beetle-black sclera warming around the edges. His grin got a little less wide, a little more careful, and then he was stepping forward, wrinkled fingers gently tugging back the blanket over her face. He was met with no resistance. Mostly because Fahrenheit was already asleep, brow furrowed through her headache, but body slack and exhausted. Hancock chuckled, put the blanket back, and quiet as his boots would let him, eased out of her room.

_“What do we do with her, boss?”_

_He levied his stare downwards. The little thing was shivering, violently so, and though it was unseasonably cold for a Commonwealth winter, a sinking feeling in Hancock’s gut told him weather had nothing to do with it. “Get her a blanket, for starters,” he hissed, “And bring her inside.”_

_The watch nodded. Hancock was still unused to it – that instant obedience to his word, his command. It felt like Vic hadn’t been dead five minutes and he was already comfortable at the top, everybody looking up at him with hope in their eyes, throats tight, like he was some goddamned radioactive Messiah. He liked being in charge. He just didn’t like the idea of what it could do to him._

_However, the minute they came forward, and one of them tried to gently grab her arm, she hissed, and sank her canines deep into his thumb. Hancock reckoned it would have broken skin if he wasn’t a ghoul. The shock of it all was the worst as he yelped, stumbling back and hitting the wall of the state house. The brat just stared at him, hungrily, eyes more feral than any ghoul he’d ever met. She had smooth skin, a full head of copper hair, and barely looked human._

_“Cute kid,” the watchman muttered. Hancock snorted without humor. He just watched the girl, watched the way her eyes addressed every guard and then him, and then her gaze made its rounds again. It never stopped rotating. She was watching them. He had to wonder – did she think they were predators, or prey?_

_He had a theory. One hand went up, and then he spoke, “Lemme talk to her. You all go to the drifters inside. They need food and water anyways.”_

_“…You sure, Hancock?” one of them asked. He rolled his eyes._

_“What’s she gonna do, eat me? It’s just a kid.” He waved his hand, more impatiently now. “Go, go, you got a job now.”_

_As they filed out he walked to her, and crouched, until he was sitting across from her. She seemed to ball tighter into herself. All bones and bruised skin, at least the bits that peeked out from under her starchy clothing. There wasn’t an inch of fabric that didn’t have a bloodstain. Kids didn’t need to look like this, he thought. Nobody did, but especially kids._

_“So, I’m guessin’ you’re not gonna talk.” He tilted his head. “That’s fine. Talking’s overrated anyways. No, I’m thinkin’ you’re the kinda kid who likes to show, not tell.” His chin jerked to her hands that were cupped so gently around each other, in contrast to the ragged edges of her body. “What’cha got there?”_

_She thought about it, he could tell. Then, slowly, she opened her hands, and inside he saw the little corpse of a cardinal, not long dead, its’ neck broken like a toothpick. The way she presented it to him looked like a macabre birthday gift. He flicked his eyes back up to her._

_“You killed it, didn’t ya?” he whispered. She drew back into herself. “Nah, sister, I’m not shamin’ you. If that bird was livin’ where you were, well …” it was hard, so hard to keep his voice steady, but for the sake of this kid, he needed to be a pillar. A mayor. “Killed it because you didn’t wanna live there either, huh? Heh, never heard of dying vicariously before.”_

_Those owlish, dark eyes blinked back at him. Through her messy, coppery hair, Hancock saw her nod. He smiled just a bit. “You don’t seem like the kinda kid who takes handouts, huh? Think it makes you weak.”_

_Another nod. Now they were getting somewhere._

_“Didn’t think so. How about this, then,” he slung one arm over his knee, “I’ll make you a deal. You come into my house there, let us get you some real clothes and food, and then you work for me. It won’t be an easy job, I promise you.”_

_And there, he could see it, the fire of just a bit of life fanning back into her. She straightened, still afraid, but watching him, seeing_ _him._

_“…What will I do?” she finally said. God, such a tiny voice. His heart felt like it would give out._

_“Town’s still dangerous. I’m gonna need protection.” Hancock offered his hand, slowly, and smiled when she didn’t back away. “You don’t look afraid of nothin’. So, how about it?”_

_Her eyes locked on his fingers like they’d bite. For a long time, he thought she wouldn’t touch them. But her skinny, shaking little hands slowly set down the bird, depositing it to the cobblestone like an offering, and reached to his, where she grabbed two of his fingers with her whole hands. So small. So cold. He wasn’t ever going to let them be cold again._

_“I don’t have a name,” she whispered. Her voice sounded dry. “He … never gave me one.”_

_“Well, that’s gonna be my first mayoral amendment,” he responded. Hancock looked at her hair, fiery and bright, just like the little bird she’d set to the ground. He remembered something, one of his schooldays from Diamond City, where the teacher drilled into their heads long-dead measurement systems for how hot it was outside. Like they would ever use it. What a weird situation for it to come in handy._

_Nothing felt more appropriate. This was a little, careful, cautious flame, who he was sure would grow into a wildfire when she was ready. Hancock pulled her up._

_“Fahrenheit,” he whispered, “Your name is Fahrenheit.”_

He really needed to stop getting lost in emotional reveries. Hancock grumbled, dragging a hand down his face. He’d been staring into space for, what, the last ten minutes? All the while some righteous trouble was waiting to be made. Honestly, he was better than this.

His watchmen nodded to him as he passed. He nodded back. A few of them he walked by until chattering downstairs stilled his steps.

“Man, Fahrenheit was _wasted_ last night. Never knew the doll drank so much.”

He rolled his eyes. Had they never met her before?

“Yeah, but I heard somethin’ else. She took someone home last night.”

“No shit, really? Here I thought nobody was good enough for her but Ashmaker.”

Now that was a surprise. Hancock wondered who the lucky (or unlucky) bastard was.

“No, not like that, at least I don’t think so. She just helped the gal to the Rex and then left, so I heard.”

“Well what’s so weird about that?”

“Because, apparently, it was that goody-two-shoes newbie – what’s her name? Cherry? Charlie?”

“You talkin’ ‘bout Charity, boys?” Hancock called from the staircase. He couldn’t see them, but hearing them shuffling like hands in a cookie jar sent him into snickers. So, the vaultie was out drinking with Fahrenheit? He wouldn’t lie – that was impressive. He was … surprised, really, that apparently alcohol wasn’t included on her “no thank you” list. That kind of made him like her more. Everybody had to cut loose somehow.

Which meant that, most likely, Charity was as hungover as Fahrenheit, probably propped up in her hotel room snoring the day away. The thought was hilarious. He, briefly, wondered if he should go make an annoyance of himself. After all, it wouldn’t be fair to just annoy _one_ drunkard.

 _Yeah_ , he thought, _Let’s go be an ass._

* * *

 

“She’s not here,” Claire said, hands spread across the counter, “Left just a little while ago.”

“Really?” Hancock rose a brow. “That hungover and already moving around?”

Claire shrugged. “She looked fine to me. Greeted us all normally and everything. Friendly little thing.”

“Yeah, she’s friendly alright …” Hancock recalled her meeting with Fahrenheit. Wouldn’t have thought _those_ two would hit it off. Charity probably a lot more sides to her than he gave credit for. “Well, damn, there goes my morning plans. Happen to see where she ran off to?”

“Ain’t like you to chase down a drifter,” Claire suddenly said, “Well, cute face like that, can’t say I’m surprised.”

Honest to God, he felt a little flustered. “Uh, heh, _no_ ,” Hancock coughed. “Nah, not like that. I’m just curious.”

“That what they call it now?” she said, eyeing him with a smirk. “Well, for your _curiosity_ , she said something about looking for work. Would have given her a job if I thought we needed someone. Dunno if she’s found one yet, though.”

Shit, she was still looking for work? Hancock worried his teeth over his bottom lip. Girlie could certainly handle herself, but he had to wonder just where this desperation was coming from. Surely what he’d given her was enough to hire somebody, like she said, right? He couldn’t see why she needed more.

Unless …

“Thanks, Claire,” Hancock waved himself out, “You’re a doll.”

She rolled her eyes and waved back, watching him head out the doors.

* * *

 

His walk back to the state house was interrupted by the woman of interest herself – coming straight from Bobbi’s den. His brows shot up.

Things just kept getting interesting.

Charity hadn’t seen him yet. She just trotted out, looking a little pained – probably a headache – but otherwise not worse for wear. So she was one of those miraculous people who didn’t get hangovers. Vaulties really were made of something else. In her hands she was holding something – a note? From so far, Hancock couldn’t make it out. Wait, make it out? What was he doing, spying in the shadows like this?

“Hey there, sunshine,” he called. Charity pivoted fast enough to make her braid swing to the other shoulder. When she saw it was him, she relaxed, totally disarmed, that wide smile beaming bright and wide. Damn, she had good teeth. Was that a weird thing to say?

“Mayor!” she said, quickly walking over. Charity tipped her rawhide hat up just a bit so she wasn’t looking at him from the brim. Closer now, Hancock realized that her eyes weren’t just blue. There was a little grey in there, in the center, like the blade of a knife. Round eyes, long lashes, and they crinkled when she grinned – which was all the damn time. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering what a ray of sunshine like this was doing in Goodneighbor.

“What did I tell ya, Charity,” Hancock chided, “Stop with the “mayor” business. Even my _watch_ calls me Hancock.”

Of course that wouldn’t work. Charity just shrugged, blowing her bangs from her eyes. “Look, I’m tryin’, but it just don’t feel right. I ain’t earned it.”

“Christ, I stabbed you. I think that earns you a name at least.”

“… Good point.” There went that face again – her pursed lips, squinted eyes, puffed cheeks. He’d annoyed her by being right. His grin split his face of its own accord. “But,” she continued, “I’m only callin’ you that when we’re alone, then. Titles are important ‘round your subjects, ain’t they?”

Oh, he couldn’t resist it. Hancock leaned down, hands in his pockets, until he reached one of them to tip her hat a little further back. “That the only thing you call me when we’re _alone_ , sunshine?”

The look on her face made it worth it. Charity spluttered, smiled, flushed and smacked his arm – all in that order, and in rapid succession. “Honestly!” it sounded like she was _trying_ to be mad, but he knew better, and he knew his charisma was behind that glimmer of flattery in her eyes. “Honestly, you’re gonna give people the wrong idea, _Mayor_.” The name was emphasized by her gaze, flicking to the watchmen who were doing a bang-up job of pretending not to look.

“What’s the harm, so long as it stays an idea?” he retorted. Hancock lightly chucked her chin with his finger. “C’mon, Charity, I don’t mean nothin’ by it. Can’t be the worst you’ve gotten from a guy.”

“I didn’t get _anythin’_ from men before ya,” she said. Charity readjusted her hat. “They don’t really look at me. I mean, can’t blame ‘em, an’ that’s why I know you’re jokin’.” Two of her thumbs rested into her belt loops.

Hancock stared at her. One of his brows rose, painfully quizzical, while he spoke, slowly, like he was unsure she could understand him. “…Doll,” he began, “What do you mean, “don’t look at you”?”

Charity rolled her eyes. “What I said – they don’t. Not where I’m from, at least.”

She had to be kidding. Apparently, pretty as her eyes were, they were also blind as shit, because she couldn’t walk one foot without a watchman or drifter taking _way_ more than their fair share of eye candy. She wasn’t Commonwealth gorgeous, which usually consisted of sharper teeth, dangerous curves and smoldered eyes, but she was definitely _pretty_ , and hell, Hancock had given “tours” to drifters without smiles that bright ten times over. Just what did she think she looked like?

He was more stunned than he realized, because Charity was waving her hands in front of his face, only a little concerned. “…Mayor?” she tried, “Hello?”

He snapped back. Hancock chuckled, just a bit, and put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know how much you value my opinion, sister, but I’d recommend gettin’ the people where you’re from a group prescription, cause they’re all the same shade of blind.” Shit, he didn’t need to be saying sappy stuff like this in front of his boys. If a ghoul could blush… “I say this without the intervention of my libido – you’re a pretty gal, sunshine. Hell, if you weren’t married…” His eyebrows waggled suggestively, which earned him another arm-smack. There was gonna be a bruise there, soon.

Charity, however, was blushing again, but deeper than before. She also seemed happy. Really happy. Hancock knew that, because she was trying to force down that grin off her face, but it kept coming back like a virus – a virus with pearly white teeth and dimples at the edges. Where was he getting his metaphors from?

“That … was really sweet, Mayor.” Charity ducked her head. “Don’t think I’ve ever had someone tell me that before.”

“Not even your husband?” he questioned. His grin fell at the sudden stiffness in her shoulders.

“…No,” Charity said quietly. He couldn’t respond before she looked back up at him again, still smiling, but not as widely. “Anyways – that was mighty kind of ya t’ say! So, what brings y’ out this way?”

That was weird. Hancock blinked. Half of him wanted to pry. He, gratefully, didn’t listen to that half. “Uh … just doin’ rounds, I suppose. Can’t help but notice you coming back from Bobbi’s.”

“Oh, her?” Charity nodded. “Whitechapel Charlie said she was lookin’ for work, so I went down an’ asked. Said it’s real secret, though, so though I’d _love_ t’ tell ya …” her words tapered off. Hancock felt a pinch in his gut.

“Charity…” he started, “I know what you said, about changin’ and all, but…” his mouth twisted. “Bobbi’s crooked, doll. Whatever she’s havin’ you do, it’s not gonna be pretty.”

Her eyes narrowed a bit. That expression again. He could read her like a book. “Well, I ain’t expectin’ it t’ be pretty.”

“Are you expecting it to involve killing?” that got her. She froze. “Because if this is Bobbi, it probably will. And she’s not gonna be nearly as understanding as me when you take “alternative” methods to the job.”

“I…” Charity was faltering. This was where she broke, it seemed. Girl just didn’t have it in her to kill. That wasn’t bad, necessarily, but it further confirmed his opinion that she didn’t belong in Goodneighbor. Cute, charming, bright as she was, this wasn’t a town for soft skin and softer hearts. She seemed to be realizing that.

But then, to his surprise, Charity’s jaw set, and she met his gaze again. “I’ll change, then. I’m gonna have t’ do it eventually. I’m not givin’ this job up.”

“…That so?” he muttered. Something unreadable was in his chest. For the sake of the mood, Hancock forced a smirk onto his face and clapped her shoulder. “Well, good on you, sister. Let’s see how far this takes you.” One finger tipped his tricorn. “Gotta go. Mayoral duties, and the like.”

She waved him off. Hancock turned so she didn’t have to see the frown creeping at his mouth, or the way his brows furrowed. Something didn’t feel right about this. It didn’t feel right at _all_.

* * *

 

TWO DAYS LATER

“Meet me in Diamond City, she says …” Charity mumbled. “Oh, I’ll give y’ a map, so y’ don’t get lost, it’s okay! Oh, don’t worry, my handwritin’s legible, I promise!”

The map was held up to her narrowed eyes like she could shame the instructions out of it. It made sense, now, that people didn’t write like they used to. Elementary school had gone mostly out of fashion. However, there was a certain kind of terrible that described Bobbi’s excuse for print, scrawled haphazardly on the parchment and resembling more Chinese code than lettering.

The only thing Charity could make out? A few arrows here and there, lines from a giant “G” (which she guessed meant Goodneighbor), and then a “D”, and anything in between that? Lord if she knew.

She hadn’t stepped outside the gates since the Pickman incident, so suddenly traversing the Boston wasteland now felt strange. It was like, in the fragile civilization that was Hancock’s drug-ridden domain, she’d entirely forgotten how _dangerous_ it was. She’d been travelling for an hour and a half, and she’d already had to dodge ferals, Gunners, a very curious mutant hound, and a few dozen bloatflies.

Now, she was perched against a wall, panting while her latest attackers – some raiders with some serious skills in facepaint – stumbled along after. She hoped their brains were too chem-riddled to notice she’d just ducked behind the nearest cover. Like she’d actually use it, Charity readied her rifle, flicked the safety, and worked her teeth just over her bottom lip.

“Come on out, girlie,” one of them hissed. He laughed, sickly, while she heard the shuffling of his boots get closer. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle. Maybe.”

If his poor threat hadn’t already annoyed her, then the stench of him might have, because she could smell the hydrophobia from here. Baths, people! Why did nobody take _baths_ anymore?

One step closer. She shut her eyes. Another step. One more. His hiss of laughter, that wheeze of a chuckle-

And then the heavy sound of something dropping into the rubble. A body. Two more, just like it, followed after. There had only been three raiders chasing her. Charity blinked, eased open her eyes to check that she was still alive, but didn’t dare peek around the corner just yet. Wherever one danger disappeared, was the other one that ate it right up.

“Well, that wasn’t very fun,” a familiar voice purred, “I suppose I should have scared you a bit more before you died. Now the expression’s ruined.”

Her body was moving before she meant it to. Charity wheeled out from the corner, catching Pickman crouched in consideration over the head raider – at her sudden leap he actually jumped, stumbling back at the sight of her practically skidding from nowhere.

“Pickman!” she exclaimed. He composed himself in record time. However, his quick breathing told her of his surprise.

“Speaking of scaring…” he murmured. “Hello, Killer. Did you like my gift?”

“Oh, I loved it. However, Hancock ain’t too keen ‘bout you sneakin’ around his watch.” Charity stuck out a hand to help him up. He accepted, eyes bulging a bit when she tugged him up like he weighed less than his wristwatch. “The flowers were beautiful, though.”

“I’m an artist in areas other than murder,” Pickman chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’re stalking me now, Killer? I’m flattered.”

She rolled her eyes, but a smirk still tugged at her lips. “You’d like that, I bet.”

“More than you know.”

“Kidder.” Charity ignored the flush in her cheeks. “No, I’m actually out on another job. Meetin’ a coworker in Diamond City.”

Pickman’s brows rose slightly, but other than that his face was unchanged. “Well, fancy that, I’m heading there myself.”

Now it was her turn to be skeptical. Charity’s hands went to perch on her hips. “Y’ better keep that “art” a’ yours on lockdown there.”

“Or what, _you_ will put me down?” Pickman suddenly laughed – a loud and clear sound, much more sane than she’d expect from him. Then again, she supposed if she hadn’t seen the gallery, he would have come off as more collected than half the Commonwealth. Context really was everything. “Don’t worry. I told you, several times now – I only kill raiders. Unless they’ve made an appearance since my last visit, I don’t think there’s any danger.”

“I’m gonna pretend y’ didn’t just patronize me an’ accept that,” she muttered. Pickman only smiled in response.

“How gracious of you.”

She stuck her tongue out. Pickman looked mildly amused. “Careful, Killer,” he said, “I could do a lot of things with that.”

It was instantly retracted, and Charity slapped her hand over her mouth with great dramatics. “Y’ wouldn’t!” she exclaimed, “What kinda art could y’ make with just a _tongue_ , anyways?”

He blinked, tightened his lips, and then broke out into a series of snickers, though they were masterfully (read: not) hidden behind the back of his hand. “That- That wasn’t what I- oh, goodness.” Shoulders still shaking, he wiped his eyes. “Of course. You truly have an artist’s vision.”

Charity was still unsure just what was so funny. She didn’t have time to dawdle about it, though, so she haughtily nodded and tossed her braid over her shoulder. “A’ course I do! Now, I’ve got a proposition, if y’ would be so interested.” And he did look interested, judging by his smirk, “We’re both headin’ t’ Diamond City, so we might as well travel together, don’t y’ think?”

Pickman considered this. “You wouldn’t mind, traveling with a serial killer?”

“If I minded,” she retorted, “I wouldn’t have offered. Now, y’ comin’ or what?”

“Well, who am I to refuse a beautiful woman?” he said. Charity smacked his arm. Pickman only shrugged, picked up his knife (a new one, she’d noticed, not quite as sharpened as the one he gave her) and sheathed it again. One arm was offered, once again a parody of pre-war society. “Shall we?”

Charity took it. She felt just a little bit charmed. “We shall.”

* * *

 

The city was coming up in view. Charity had long since abandoned Pickman’s arm, turning instead to fiddle with her Pip-Boy, idly changing the volume on the radio station. Travis was mumbling away on her wrist, tugging her heartstrings all along. He reminded her of her little brother – nervous, unsure, unknowing. No, don’t think about him. There wasn’t a reason to anymore.

“Interesting,” Pickman muttered, taking her from her thoughts, “The gate is closed.”

“What? It’s closed?” Charity’s head jerked up. Sure enough, the great green jewel was closed to the public, with the only sign of life being a woman in a red leather coat outside, gesturing wildly and with great comedic effect. Her voice could be heard even from their distance.

“You open this gate right now, Danny Sullivan!” she shouted, “I _live_ here! You can’t just lock me _out_!”

She felt that familiar pang of indignation burrow its way in her heart. Charity frowned at the response of whoever was behind that gate – Danny, presumably.

“I’m sorry, but Mayor McDonough’s really steamed, Piper. Sayin’ that article you wrote was all lies.” Oh, _now_ she understood. “The whole city’s all in a tizzy.”

Piper growled. “Damn it, Danny! Open up!”

“We have to help her,” Charity was already walking forward. Her collar got caught by Pickman’s fingers, which swiftly tugged her back.

“Hold it, Killer.” He shot her a look. “Just what are you going to do, hm? Pry the gate with your freakishly strong arms?”

“…Maybe.” Charity stared, then sighed. “Fine, I ain’t got a plan. But she needs t’ get inside! An’ so do we!”

“I’m hardly denying that. I’m suggesting we decide what they want, and then we adopt that consequently.”

“As in … lie t’ them?” she echoed. Pickman rose a brow. “Alright, fine, y’ mean lie t’ them. Okay. I can do this. I was prepared t’ do this.”

“If you’re done mentally preparing, Killer,” Pickman muttered, “I think our damsel is getting frustrated.”

“I got orders not to let you in, Ms. Piper,” Danny apologized. To his credit, he sounded genuinely regretful. “I’m sorry. I’m just doing my job.”

Piper seemed hardly sympathetic. She all but hissed, fingers balled, lip curling into a sneer. “Just doing your _job_? Protecting Diamond City means keeping me out, is that it?” Her fingers unfolded quickly, splaying out dramatically. “Ooh, look, it’s the scary reporter, boo!”

Danny spluttered.  “Ms. Piper, I’m sorry, but …”

Piper was rubbing the top of her head. She paced back, forward, back again, each step exponentially growing more fidgety, more annoyed. When Charity and Pickman arrived, the latter of the two hanging behind with a careful eye on the guards, she lit up instantly.

“You,” she seized Charity’s shoulders while the smaller girl stiffened in surprise, “You want into Diamond City, right?”

“That’s … the goal,” Charity started. Apparently, that was all Piper needed to hear.

“Ooh, what’s that?” she said, “You’re a trader? Up from Quincy?”

“Where’s Quinc-“ Charity started, only to have Pickman’s hand clap over her mouth. She was half tempted to lick it. From behind her, she felt his chest rumble as he spoke.

“Yes, traders,” he purred, all manners and sharp smiles. “We’ve got some medical supplies that are _extremely_ valuable.”

Charity twisted to glare at him. Pickman only shrugged, a mental communication of _what do you expect me to say?_ through his eyes. Piper, however, seemed elated.

“You hear that, Danny?” she called, “Sure would _hate_ t’ be the guard that passes up on _all_ these supplies …”

“Ugh … fine,” Danny spat, “But this better not be one of your tricks.”

The gate began creaking. Charity grinned, shaking herself loose from Pickman’s hand while Piper leaned in conspiratorially. She spoke from behind her hand. “Better head in before ol’ Danny catches on.”

“Sounds good t’ me,” Charity giggled.

And when the gate peeled open, Danny was waiting for them, but so was another man, portly and well-put together. The shape of his mustache, curled like some parody of a prospector from Charity’s history books, twitched underneath the veritable _snarl_ he was wearing at the sight of them. The second they, or rather _Piper_ , were in range, he stormed forward, thick finger jutting out like a laser.

“You _devious_ , rabble-rousing slanderer!” he growled. Charity and Pickman both reeled back out of instinct. “I’ll have that printer stripped for _parts_!”

Piper, to her credit, hardly seemed affected. The practiced air of indifference about her was impressive to Charity, who was content to let the very angry mayor and reporter sort this out amongst themselves. She’d gotten them both in, after all. Judging by Pickman’s antsiness, she wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

But, as luck would have it, dear McDonough turned to her, and instantly that frown peeled into a wide grin. Too wide. Too _synthetic_. Charity was instantly reminded of her uncle, the way he’d smile and patronize the children that he assumed knew no better. How he’d give them candy if they “played” with him. A chill went down her back, so she forced those memories away, to deal with when she was alone and a lot more intoxicated.

“Ah, don’t let this taint your view of our little community,” he said, giving Charity a strange sense of déjà vu. The lilt in his voice – she’d heard that somewhere before. “Was there anything, ahem, that you came in particular for?”

“Cover story,” Pickman whispered. Charity nodded slightly before flashing a large grin of her own.

“We’re traders, up from Quincy!” she said brightly, “Medicinal supplies an’ the like. This lovely lady here helped us find our way, as a matter of fact!” Charity gestured to Piper, who appeared surprised at her sudden inclusion. Somewhat confused, but flattered, she nodded her head. “So imagine our surprise when we arrive an’ find this is the kinda town that keeps its’ own _residents_ from their homes when they don’t behave.” Her tongue tutted. “Shameful.”

“I-I, no, that’s not quite-“ McDonough spluttered. Piper looked about ready to bust a seam with laughter. “No, my dear, it’s not quite that simple. If you only read the kind of lies this “lovely lady” prints-“

“Well, I won’t have a chance t’ read those lies if y’ don’t let us in, now will I?” Charity retorted cooly. She fixed him with a glare. “ _Both_ of us.”

The mayor simmered. He mumbled something, something she couldn’t catch, but apparently that Pickman _did_ , because she felt his grip on her arm tighten ever so slightly. She hoped her hand over his would calm it ever so slightly. He … loosened, but his jaw never unset.

“She’s got you there, McDonough,” Piper sniggered, “Guess not everyone gets won over by that shark smile of yours.”

“Oh, you- fine.” McDonough grumbled and waved a hand, “Do whatever you like, Piper – you always do anyways. You, ah,” his grin again, slightly strained and aimed at Charity – though noticeably avoiding Pickman, “You have a _lovely_ time in our great, green jewel.”

“Naturally, mayor,” she said without an ounce of warmth. McDonough stalked back through the hall, leaving Piper to finally buckle in laughter once he left. She held her gut, wiping a tear from her eyes.

“Ooh! Now that showed him! I’ve never seen him so riled!” she hollered. Charity felt herself untensing too, bit by bit, until she was laughing right along with her, honest giggles that felt more girlish than she’d been allowed in a while. God, she needed more female friends. “You aren’t the first to stand up to him, but boy, will you be the best. That was hilarious!”

“Why, thank ya, I’m here through Thursday,” Charity said. That only spurred them on more. Pickman’s gentle hand at the small of her back reminded her that, hey, they might have been here for a reason, and it wasn’t to make fun of the mayor. “Glad I could help.”

Piper sighed as her laughter slowly subsided. “Hey, I am too. So, feed a journalist’s curiosity a little bit – why are you _really_ here? Cause I’ve seen traders, and you two ain’t traders. Don’t worry,” she added at Charity’s nervous look, “It’s not going in the papers. Unless it’s _really_ interesting.”

She considered telling the truth. There was no real reason to lie, but the truth caught in her throat, lurching like a vice grip around her tongue. Something just wasn’t letting her. So, Charity flashed another smile, one that made Piper smile back, though with a hint of unease. “I’m just on a job. Name’s Charity, an’ that’s Pic-“

“Pickton, Richard Pickton,” Pickman interjected. He set his hands on Charity’s shoulders. “I’m her husband.”

“You’re my _wha_ -“

“If you’ll excuse us,” he was quick to grab her hand, dragging her off to the hall, “We have a job to do.”

“Uh … gotcha?” Piper called from behind. “Enjoy Diamond City!”

* * *

 

“What was _that_?” Charity hissed when they were inside. The two of them were off to the side of the stairs, Pickman noticeable pressed against the railing. “Since when are _you_ my _husband_?”

“Since our very nice reporter friend would consider an unrelated man and woman traveling alone to be strange,” he answered smoothly. “I don’t quite think you’ve learned the art of _not_ gathering attention, Killer.”

She quieted, but still grumbled. “Could’ve at least _warned_ me,” she muttered, much to Pickman’s amusement. Her “husband” shrugged in response.

“I promise to hold the honeymoon until further notice,” he said.

Charity poked his chest. “An’ you better, because I’m already married.” _That_ got his attention, brows shooting up and lips parting. “What, I didn’t tell ya?”

“Neglected that part of our conversation, yes, I’m afraid,” Pickman coughed lightly. “Well, regardless, we’re both inside. You said you had a coworker to meet?”

“Once I find her, yes,” Charity said. “An’ what did y’ have to do?”

“That’s a secret, killer,” he whispered. “But how about this – after our respective work, would you like to meet me for some noodles?”

“Why, is my own husband asking me on a date?” Charity grinned. Pickman’s smirk only slid further up his face.

“Your _husband_ has a business proposition for you, my dear. But only once he’s made sure of something else.” One of his dark eyes winked at her. “Do we have a deal?”

“I think that can be arranged.” Charity offered her hand, which he took, and they shook on it. “Well, until we meet again, Pickman.”

“Yes indeed,” he said, eyes never leaving hers. Charity might have felt his grip tighten. “If we meet at again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based Charity here slightly off my friend who, I kid you not, I watched get wasted to Neverland and back, practically die on the bar floor, I'm talking corpse, blacked out, etc., and the next morning? Like nothing ever happened. Needless to say I was a little terrified of her after that.  
> As always, thank you for reading and reviewing! I've gotten a few reviewers who are very sweet in reviewing every chapter, and I wanna say how happy that makes me to see your words and know what you're thinking! It really is very encouraging for writers to know that their stories are appreciated - kudos and bookmarks are great, don't get me wrong, but words really can't be replaced. Thank you!
> 
> Edit: In case any of you fancy Nick Valentine, I do have a story between him and another sole survivor of mine, Candy, that I just posted. Go ahead and check my profile for it - the Cancio Case Files! I should update pretty regularly on that one, too!


	7. Business Proposals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobbi gives Charity some more information on the job. Charity has some doubts about if she really belongs.
> 
> -Trigger warning for panic attacks.-

Charity had made approximately three rounds of the Takahashi noodle stand before an annoyed, raspy grumble beside her made her stop.

“I’m right _here_ ,” Bobbi whispered, muffled behind a gas mask. Charity blinked a few times, but sat down, slowly, and never wiped the look of confusion off her face. Bobbi apparently read it, because she sighed and shuffled around. “Don’t look so confused, Jones. Can’t show my face around these parts, is all.”

“Why?” Was Bobbi just that well known? Charity had barely prepared herself to step outside her moral comfort zone, but if it meant infamy, this might have been too much.

“You really don’t know?” Bobbi said, “Damn, must be nice up in the clouds like that. Ghouls ain’t allowed in Diamond City, don’t y’know.”

“That’s awful!” Charity said, much louder than she meant, because half the citizens whipped their heads at the funny lady who liked to shout at noodles. Slightly sheepishly, she lowered her voice. “I mean…that’s awful.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bobbi hissed, “Doll, anyone ever told you how to _not_ attract attention?”

“More than y’ might expect, actually…” she muttered, recalling Pickman just earlier. “I s’pose anythin’s liable t’ be “banned” with a mayor like that, though.”

“Heh, you said it, sister,” Bobbi chuckled. “But we didn’t come here t’ rag on ol’ McDonough. I’ve got somethin’ you need to do.”

“Alright,” Charity said, this time a little more conscious of her volume. She crossed her legs.

“See, I’ve got an old friend who got himself into a bit of trouble recently,” as she talked, Bobbi jerked her head to the left, “He’s gonna be helping us plan our little break-in, but first, you need to break him _out_.”

“He’s in jail?” Charity frowned. “For…”

“Ain’t for nothin’ drastic, get that look off your face,” Bobbi muttered something like “greenhorn” under her breath, “Just because he don’t know how to keep his nose outta trouble. Go in, do whatever you need to do to get him out, and we’ll meet back in Goodneighbor once I’ve finished my business.”

“Well, I s’pose that won’t be too hard…” Charity lied. Breaking someone out of jail. How had she gone from a housewife in Boston to breaking a man out of jail? And what did Bobbi mean, “whatever she needed to do”? Was she going to have to kill someone? How many guards were there? What kind of prisons did the apocalyptic wasteland sport?

“You done fretting?” Bobbi said. “If so, get to work. I don’t pay you to sit around lookin’ pretty.”

“Yes ma’am,” she said without thinking. Bobbi seemed a little thrown by the formality, but shrugged it off.

“Get going, brownnoser.”

* * *

 

Get him out of jail.

Get him out of jail.

God, how was she going to get him out of jail?

Charity stared at the blue door, begging it to tell her the answer. It didn’t, because it was a door. She pursed her lips and worked her fingers nervously around her braid, but that didn’t help, so she left her hands to dangle uselessly by her side. As useless as she felt.

This was the first wall she’d hit and she already felt like giving up.

_No_ , a voice – her voice – told her, _You wanted to give up from the beginning. You’re not meant for this. You’re just Nate’s little wife._

Charity must have looked strange, shaking her head to herself. _No, no, I’m more than that. Nate isn’t here – I am. I’m the one doing this._

_Nate would be doing it better,_ the voice taunted.

_Of course he would have. But he isn’t doing it now._

That was all the encouragement she needed. Charity sucked in a breath, opened the door, and stepped across the threshold – something symbolic in the scene that she didn’t care to contemplate.

The inside of the security office, an old locker room, would have been funny if Charity’s nerves weren’t overthrowing her gut. As she went down the stairs, shoulders squared, chin high, she wondered briefly: Bobbi did say “whatever she needed to do”. That didn’t _imply_ killing. No, why would it? Even Bobbi wouldn’t want all of Diamond City Security on their asses for one simple job. Which meant there had to be some kind of workaround.

She stopped just at the entrance. One of the guards looked at her, somewhat quizzically, but it was hard to make out his full expression behind his mirrored sunglasses.

“…Howdy.” Charity said in the most natural tone ever. He nodded at her.

“…So, I think that means ‘hi’,” he said slowly. “So, uh, hi.” He coughed a little bit. “Can I help ya, doll?”

“Yes! Yes, ah, y’ can.” Behind him she spotted exactly one person in the cell – Bobbi’s friend. Or, well, she hoped so. Otherwise, one very lucky prisoner was getting his freedom early. “My friend back there, his, ah, his girl ain’t feelin’ too well. Their kid’s comin’ soon, an’, well, she wanted t’ know if, uh…” oh god, was he believing her? She couldn’t tell if he believed her. If he took those stupid sunglasses off… “If…if he…could…get out…”

Mr. Sunglasses didn’t say anything for a while. He just looked at her, then looked back at the cell, then her again. This pattern repeated for the next thirty seconds. Finally he sighed and scratched his bald head. “Mel has friends?” he whispered to himself. “Well, sure. I guess he’s been here long enough. Because I, uh, totally know how long he’s been here.” He dug into his pocket, retrieved a key, and tossed it at her – which she barely caught. “Go on, he’s free to go.”

“Thank ya!” She jumped at her own volume. “Oh, I mean, thanks. Really appreciate it, sir.”

“No problem,” he said with a grin, “Welcome to the, uh, Great Green Jewel.” And then he walked off, a little quicker than before.

Charity was halfway to the cell when she realized she never told him she was new here. Well, who cared. She crouched in front of the cell while the man curiously stared from his spot on the bench.

“…Who are you?” he said. Charity winked at him.

“Your savior. Bobbi sent me. Here we are…” The gate opened. Charity waved her hand. “Nice t’ meet ya! I’m Charity.”

He smiled a bit. “Likewise, Charity. I’m Mel. Uh, let’s get out of here?”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

* * *

 

Once they were outside, away from prying ears, Mel stopped and ran a hand through his ginger hair. “Damn, I was about to be out anyway. Bobbi couldn’t wait two more days?”

Charity shrugged, a half-smile on her face. “S’pose we all get a lil’ impatient sometimes.”

Mel looked at her quizzically. “Not that it’s any of my business, but where are you from? Don’t hear accents like that often around here.”

She thought. Nobody here knew what Texas was. So, she just played vague. “From…the south.”

“Oh, really? Like the Mojave area?” His grin suddenly widened. “Oh, are you from New Vegas?”

“No, I- New?” What happened to the old one? “Well, uh…’round there, I s’pose.”

That was all Mel needed to hear, apparently. His crooked grin was long across his face, but it wasn’t anything threatening – just excited and eager. “Look at that! I’ve got some friends from there. Maybe you know each other?”

“Oh, I wasn’t, uh…a talkative type…” This conversation was about to be very disappointing. Charity cleared her throat. “We can catch up ‘bout that later, Mel. Bobbi ain’t gonna want us t’ wait around.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Mel sighed. “Bobbi say anything about the job?”

“She did, but this ain’t the…prime, location t’ talk about it, if y’ catch my meanin’,” Charity said lowly. Mel processed this for a few seconds, then nodded. He jerked his head to the exit.

“In that case, I’ll meet you back at Goodneighbor. Thanks for getting me out, by the way.”

Charity grinned. “Basic decency, Mel. We’re coworkers now, after all.”

He laughed and trotted off. Charity considered following him. She was half a step forward, but remembered Pickman’s invitation just earlier, and suddenly Takahashi’s noodles felt just a bit heavier. That was right – he wanted to meet her. He hadn’t exactly given a _date_ , though. Then again…her Pip-Boy seemed to be just about the only thing in the Commonwealth that kept regular time, so maybe he just meant to feel it out. Sure. She could do that.

As Charity slowly explored the walkways, a thought loomed in the back of her mind. _You were going to come here anyway_ , it said, _Why not get your business done now? Piper said the detective was here. Go talk to him. Why aren’t you talking to him, Charity?_

She fought to keep the grimace off her face. Charity nodded politely at a passing guard.

_You’re wasting time, Charity. He’s out there. Shaun’s out there. And you’re here, too afraid to help him. Is that how you’re going to apologize to your son? How you’re going to apologize to Nate? Why are you too afraid to do anything? Why are you always afraid? Why?_

She tugged along the sleeve of her jacket to give her hands something to do. Charity busied herself along a small walkway, just off the edge of the main buildings, where nobody else seemed to be walking.

_I’m not afraid,_ she thought to herself, _I’m not, I’m not-_

_Don’t kid yourself. “Becoming stronger”? “Preparing”? You’re not training for anything, you’re just taking as long as you can to admit you weren’t meant to be here. You don’t actually want to be here. You know you’ll fail. You’re too weak. Everybody can see it, you know. They all know you can’t even shoot a raider. And they **hate** you for it._

Her eyes were growing hot. _They don’t-_

_Oh, but they do. This isn’t the kind of world for someone like you. They’re all thinking that. Finn, Fahrenheit, Daisy…Hancock._

She hiccupped and her heart was suddenly too large for her chest. It felt like it might burst out. That, along with her lungs – every one of her organs felt constricted and there was less air in her chest than before. She tried to take in more. It didn’t work. She tried harder. It just made it worse.

“S’posed t’ be here, I am, I am, I promise, please-“ who was she talking to? There was nobody here. Nobody to hear her.

_No, Charity, that’s not it – nobody will **listen**_ **_to you._**

“Oh my god, are you okay?”

She jerked up at a familiar, feminine voice. Piper was above her, black hair framing her face, a mask of absolute worry. She quickly crouched down. “I was just walking around for some fresh air – hey, can you hear me? What’s the matter?”

She realized, distantly, that her cheeks were wet. Charity also couldn’t talk. So she just sniffed, shook her head, and buried it in her hands. Every part of her trembled. Piper seemed at a loss and chewed on her lips, eventually settling for a very cautious rub of her shoulders that turned into a full-blown hug. And there they sat, curled on the outskirts of Diamond City, with Piper rubbing her back as the sobs concluded.

“Hey there, hey, it’s okay…” Piper mumbled, “Hey, you need to be inside right now. Where’s that husband of yours at a time like this?”

“N-Not here,” Charity mumbled, “Nate isn’t- isn’t here…”

“I thought his name was Richard?”

She stiffened. Pickman. Takahashi. The meet-up. Piper must have felt something, because she gingerly released her while Charity frantically wiped her eyes. “N-No, that’s- yes, that’s his name, I’m sorry, I gotta…I gotta go, he said t’ meet him an’-“

“Hold on now,” Piper interrupted. She kept her voice slow and hands out. “I don’t think you’re up to being _anywhere_ right now, much less on a date. Let’s go back to my place and get you some coffee, okay?” That smile of hers was just about angelic. “Promise it’ll be strictly off the record.”

“I…y’ have coffee?” Charity hated how hopeful she felt. Piper laughed and nodded.

“It’s not strong, but it’s enough. C’mon, Blue.” Piper gently helped her up. Charity went with her, slowly, grateful for the woman’s gentle hands along her arms. It felt so soft, and god she’d missed soft. She’d missed soft, and calm, and considerate and kind and-

God she was crying again. Instantly, Piper pulled her into another hug. She rubbed her shoulders firmly.

“Shh, hey, hey, my house is right there,” she muttered, “You can make it that far, yeah?”

“You’re…bein’ so nice t’ me…”

“I’ve got a little sister. I’m good at this kind of stuff.”

Arm-in-arm, the two walked to a larger housing unit with a small open area at the front. A little girl was in front, yelling about something Charity was too tired to comprehend. She stopped, looking at them, but Piper just jerked her head in a soft motion and helped Charity inside.

The interior was painfully cozy. Not luxurious, but just comfortable, and Charity could have cried again for the novelty of it. Gently, Piper put her on the couch, and when the little girl behind them made a questioning nose, she turned back.

“Nat, could you get our guest some coffee, please?”

Nat looked a little confused, but nodded, trotting off out of eyesight. Piper turned to Charity. She sat next to her, hands never leaving her shoulders, and while rubbing comforting circles all the time, gently spoke again.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but if you do…” she grinned just a bit. “I’m used to listening to wild stories.”

Charity sniffled and managed some sort of smile, though it probably looked more like a grimace. “Off the record?”

“Off the record.”

“Alright…” Whatever had barred her from speaking earlier suddenly wasn’t there anymore. Charity wasn’t sure if it was because of her last little “session” or not, but she just felt empty. “It’s hard t’ talk about.”

“Nothing worth anything is easy, Blue.” Piper said softly. Charity nodded.

“That’s for sure. Why do y’ call me Blue, by the way?”

“Eh…I mean it in the best way – you’re just obviously from a vault. Blue vault suits. Hence, blue.” Piper shrugged, then blinked at Charity’s sudden snicker against the solemn mood of it all.

“That’s what everybody keeps sayin’, huh? But, well, y’ain’t wrong. I just didn’t think it was so obvious.”

Nat chose then to come back with two cups of coffee – Piper took one and handed it to Charity, then took the remaining one for herself. Charity smelled it first. It _hurt_ how good it smelled. It smelled like mornings back in Texas, before the world woke up to start the day. It smelled like Nate before Anchorage. It smelled like gentle moments to herself, before everything went to shit. It just smelled like _before_.

Charity took a sip. She sighed. Then, she turned back to Piper.

“I’m from a vault, but…not the kinda one y’all think.” At the reporter’s quizzical look, Charity chuckled. “Oh, this ain’t gonna sound believable at all…”

“That’s my favorite kind, don’t you know?”

They both giggled just a bit, while Charity took another sip. “Then this’ll be fantastic.” Piper motioned for her to continue, so she did.

“I was born in 2053, in a small town in Texas…”

* * *

 

Piper’s eyes couldn’t have gotten wider. Charity was halfway worried they’d fall into her coffee cup at this point. If she had the energy to laugh, she would have, but all she could manage at this point was a weak little huff.

“Cryogenics…” Piper muttered, “Oh my…how…”

“I’ve been askin’ myself that for a while.”

“…I know I said I wouldn’t report it, Blue, but…” she bit her lip, “This is just too good. Are you sure?”

“I would rather if y’ didn’t, I’m sorry,” Charity said, genuinely. “It’s hard enough for me t’ think about, let alone talk about, let alone see it printed across half the Commonwealth. Maybe when- when I’m stronger. When it’s somethin’ that don’t feel so…real.”

“Yeah, I understand that, actually.” Piper sighed. “Well, at least do a gal the service of a little interview. Nothing public. I’m just curious.”

“Can’t see how y’ wanna listen t’ me more, after that,” Charity laughed lightly, but nodded. “Alright. What do y’ wanna know?”

“Well, for starters, how would you look at the Commonwealth now, in the eyes of a pre-war housewife?” Piper said. Charity pursed her lips in thought.

“I’d say…” She thought back to her friends in Goodneighbor. She thought back to how she had _friends_ at all. Fahrenheit drinking with her after a bad day, Finn gifting his knife as an apology, rescuing Pickman from raiders…Hancock. Waking up to his roguish grin, his charming quips. And the way he’d called her pretty. “It’s hopeful. More than I’d thought it’d be.”

“Well isn’t that a ray of sunshine.” Piper smirked. “That’s comforting.”

“I aim t’ please.”

“Not that I don’t have literally thousands more questions I wanna ask, but,” Piper tilted her head, “Your, uh, not-husband said he wanted to meet you or something, right?”

“Oh, Pickman!” Charity straightened. “I totally forgot!”

Piper, however, was pale. “Pickman, as in…Pickman Gallery? The raider death trap? Wait a minute, _you_ know him?”

“Well, it’s mighty complicated. I’ll tell ya sometime.” Charity was up on her feet. “Thanks for the coffee, an’ I mean it. You’re an angel, Piper.”

“Like you said, I aim to please,” she replied, still looking a little shaken. “Um, have fun with the serial killer?”

“I will! Goodnight!” And then she was off, wondering why her chest felt just a bit lighter than before.

* * *

 

Pickman was waiting for her at the stand. When he saw her, he smiled, that same sharp smile he’d given earlier at the gate. Charity’s smile was a little more apologetic as she trotted up, grabbed a stool, and sat down next to him.

“Sorry if I made y’ wait,” she started, but Pickman held up a hand.

“I haven’t been here long, Killer,” he said. “How was your job?”

“It’s done,” she said with more finality than she meant. Pickman rose a brow. “And your …business?”

“Concluded.” He grinned at her furrowed brows, and leaned in just a bit, conspiratorially. “Hm? You curious, Killer?”

“Of course I am,” she retorted. “But I s’pose y’ won’t tell me any more than I told _you_ , hm?”

“Ah, she’s catching on.” One finger tapped his temple. “Don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough. If it works.”

Could he be any more ominous? Well, it was Pickman, so Charity figured the answer to that was a resounding _duh_. She rolled her eyes, leaned an elbow on the counter, and fixed him with an expectant look.

“Now, just what did y’ wanna discuss, hm?” she said, “Or is this just a very long winded way of askin’ me out?”

“I _was_ listening when you said you were married,” Pickman said with mock offense. “I murder, but I don’t support adultery.”

“A moral beacon, y’ are.”

“Thank you.” He smirked. “No, I did mean a business proposition. More specifically, I would like to hire you for something.” Pickman’s tone evened. “I _do_ pay well, by the way.”

“I’m interested,” she said and tried not to seem desperate. “What is it?”

“I’m in need of a new Gallery space. You…know, of the last one.” He actually snickered at Charity’s open grimace. “Oh, don’t look so disgusted, Killer. You did marvelously, all of that.”

“Sure, _I_ did, but my nose an’ stomach? Not so much.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” he said. “But my point remains – I can’t continue my art on the road so…openly, as much as I enjoy public consumption of media.”

Charity was slowly catching on. “An’ y’ want me t’ find one for ya.”

“Actually, I’ve already got a space in mind.” Pickman waved his hand. “Fairly clear, too. However, the issue with the last space was that, in the process of attracting raiders, I also attracted attention from…well, just about everybody else. Which is how I met you, I suppose.” Charity nodded. “There were…altercations. Never from my own hands, of course. The raiders often wound up attacking innocent individuals in my gallery. Bloodthirsty scum.”

The sudden fury in his tone made Charity jump. But, just as quickly, that bloodlust turned calm, and he grinned, “But that is beside the point.”

“…Right,” not that she didn’t agree, but Charity was suddenly a little more aware how close he was sitting, “So, where do I come in?”

“Through the front door?” Pickman snickered at her eye-roll. “I’m kidding. No, I have something in mind for you. I’d like you to be my gallery manager.”

Charity snorted. “Comin’ from you, that’s way too innocent a job title.”

“You’re learning so fast, it’s alarming.”

“Easy with such a great teacher,” Charity said, “Let me guess. Y’ want me t’ keep anyone who ain’t facepaintin’ away from your gallery?”

“Exactly.” The way he said it, so amicably, made it far more innocent than it actually was. He could have been an amazing actor, she realized.

“Alright, I see the point,” Charity said, “But why me? We both know I ain’t the greatest fighter out there.”

“Killer, it’s because of that. You did everything you could not to kill those raiders even when they had, quite literally, shot you in the leg.” There was something in Pickman’s gaze, something Charity couldn’t place, but it kept her from looking away. He looked strangely striking in the low light of the noodle stand. “The last thing I want is more innocent people getting involved in my art. If anyone is good at preventing violence, it’s you.”

The bubble of warmth in her chest bloomed, and Charity found herself red-faced, eyes wide. “I…goodness, that’s mighty sweet of ya.” She was a little short of breath as she played with a loose strand of hair. “Well, I s’pose it don’t sound too bad. Would I be there all the time?”

“Only when I’m, ah, creating,” he phrased eloquently, “When I’m luring more into the space. That’s the only time there should be risk of anybody else. When that happens, I’d contact you.”

“How?”

“Via courier. We can work out a code, and write to each other in it.”

She thought about it. This…sounded like something she could do. She didn’t like every aspect, especially the murdering, but if she was going to be picky about everything in this world then she’d never survive. Especially working where she did now.

Besides, whatever Bobbi would have her do couldn’t be much better. Breaking into the Diamond City Storeroom? The guilt was enough to eat her ten times over. No, at least this would be taking more vermin off the streets, not adding her to the mix.

“I’ll do it,” she said, and smiled when Pickman did. Her new business partner leaned his chin on his palm.

“Excellent. Where are you staying, so that I have an address?”

“Well, the Rexford, currently,” Charity started, “But I ain’t plannin’ on bein’ there forever. I just ain’t sure where t’ go next.”

“Try a settlement? There’s quite a few that could use your help.”

She shuddered. “Don’t say that. Y’ sound like someone I know.”

Pickman laughed. “Very well. Then, how about the gallery, with me?” Charity must have looked shocked, because he was quick to hold up his hands, claiming some kind of innocence she knew he didn’t have. “No, I’ve told you, I have no ulterior motives. Business partners. That is all I’m proposing.”

Living with a man. Every instinct of her conservative family pounded into her gut. Charity worked the thought around in her mouth, tasting it, feeling how she could manage something that would make her mother roll around in what was now a very radioactive grave.

“Let me…think on it?”

“Naturally.” Pickman offered his hand. Charity smiled and grabbed it, trying not to think of just how soft his palms felt, or how his smile seemed a little whiter in the moonlight. “To art?”

“To art.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't update after a while! Was working on my other Fallout fic at the same time. Thanks for reading!


	8. Good, Good Neighbor - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charity's happiness about her new business deal ends when disaster strikes at Goodneighbor. She's left to wonder just how much she's willing to fight to be in a world that doesn't want her.
> 
> -Trigger warning for slightly graphic violence.-

“What’s our code?” Charity said as they approached Goodneighbor. Pickman rose a brow for clarification. “For, I mean, the letters an’ everythin’.”

“Good question…” he tightened his lips in thought. “I don’t suppose we want anything overly dramatic – aside from being silly, it would also attract attention. Any suggestions?”

She mirrored his contemplative expression and shifted her rifle as they walked. “Well,” she started, “I s’pose if we’re tryin’ t’ be subtle, maybe write that y’ have “friends” comin’ over? That could imply anythin’.”

“Perhaps, but I think specifying what _kind_ of friends would be better. Just saying “friends” is a little _too_ vague, Killer. Nobody is just “friends” in the Commonwealth.”

Charity frowned. “Well, that just ain’t very nice. We’re not friends, Pickman?”

He seemed startled at her genuine hurt, and he damn well should have been – she didn’t much take this job just because he seemed like a decent partner. She watched the way he processed his response, and then when he finally spoke, it was with a bit more deliberation.

“I…suppose we are. Friends, that is.” Pickman chewed idly on the base of his thumbnail, where she’d just noticed there was a dent, “I apologize, Killer. I didn’t mean to imply that I disliked you. All I meant was that “friendship” tends to have an underlying business transaction, merely for the sake of survival.” At that, Charity snorted, waving her hand.

“Alright, I get ya. That makes sense. I guess I just ain’t used t’ that kinda “friendship”, is all.”

“Ah, I suppose vaults would be different. You _are_ from a vault, right?” At her slight nod, he nodded back. “I thought so.”

“Let me guess,” she rolled her eyes, “Because I’m naïve an’ don’t kill, right, or that I got all my limbs?”

That startingly open laugh caught her off guard again, but not as much as the whiteness of his teeth or the way his eyes crinkled in his snickers. She wasn’t staring, of course not. He just commanded her attention, was all. That was it. “Well, you said it, not me. I _was_ going to suggest another reason, though.”

“An’ that would be…?”

“Your aversion to stimpacks. There’s no way one could survive here without using them – liberally, at that – and aside from Slag’s shot to your leg, you were entirely healthy when I met you. As far as I could see. So, the only option was a vault upbringing where you didn’t have to worry about injury.” He paused, as if realizing something, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed. “Though, I suppose you would even have to worry there, too. Vault 81 often brings in medicinal supplies, so I’m told.”

Oh, boy. Because this was the conversation she wanted to have. The thought of the shot – and the aftermath – made Charity visibly wince. Everything she’d done to forget that moment, that sheer terror of memories better left unearthed, came flooding back to her in a wave of shame, reddening her cheeks and drawing her gaze to the rubble they walked on.

Pickman looked down at her. He said nothing, but she felt that piercing stare, calculating and appraising all over again. She suddenly felt like she needed armor. Should she look up? Challenge him? Defend herself? Or should she tell him the truth?

“I…” Piper’s “interview” made her still. That had been the first time she’d told her story in its entirety, and it had nearly taken everything out of her. Charity wasn’t ready to feel that empty again. “It’s…a long story. I’ll tell it t’ ya, one day, but right now, I’d appreciate it if we could leave it be?” A sheepish smile graced her lips. “I’d rather not think about it right now.”

“Oh. Of course,” he said immediately. She never felt his gaze leave her. Charity supposed that was the best she would get.

* * *

 

She bid goodbye to Pickman just before approaching Goodneighbor. The glowing welcome of neon made her smile, just a bit, and what she might have once considered tacky now just seemed like a loud, shining “welcome home”.

“The fuck do you mean, Hancock?” Finn’s voice yelled from inside. She grimaced.

A _very_ loud, shining, “welcome home”.

The second she opened the gate Charity was greeted with a knife landing inches from her cheek. It embedded itself into the rusted iron with the accuracy of a homing missile, and for the next few seconds, the most she moved were her eyebrows, rocketing up into the atmosphere.

The knife came from Finn, who seemed to just be realizing who he’d almost stabbed. His eyes widened, his body stilled. Even the watch seemed to be unnerved. The only one who moved at all was Hancock, standing Finn’s opposite, who just growled with a ferocity she’d never seen outside of junkyard dogs.

“Watch those fingers, Finn,” he snarled, “What would you have done if it hit her, hm?”

Snapping back to reality, Finn scoffed, stalking to Charity to tug the knife out of the wall. She stared owlishly at his large arm hovering above her, and when he yanked it out, she winced a little as the blade kissed her cheek. It had been close. _Way_ too close.

“Yeah, well, it _didn’t_ , did it?” he retorted, still standing by her. Then, his tone turned smug, and he flicked his eyes down on her again. “Hey, Charity, welcome back. You wanna know what our dear mayor has been up to since you left?”

“Oh, boy…” she muttered, “Surprise me.”

“Hah! Oh, I’ll do ya one better,” Finn chuckled. He turned back to Hancock who looked ready to pounce. “Hey, Hancock, you wanna tell her about it, or should I?” His grin crept up his face, wide and inhuman and just a little bit _wrong_ , “Nah, wait, of course you won’t – you wouldn’t be everyone’s favorite mayor if that happened, would you? Wouldn’t be of the people, for the people, huh?”

“Finn…” Hancock warned, “It’s in your damn best interest to stop talkin’.”

“I’ll decide what my best interest is, _mayor_ ,” he taunted. “As everybody here should do as well! Look at the mess he got us into now, because he’s too damn soft to run this town!”

Charity hissed through her teeth. In a second she was between them, fists clenched, eyes stormy in their glare to Finn, who seemed surprised that she put herself there at all. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ soft,” she said, “An’ I don’t much appreciate the tone you’re takin’, Finn.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, get off it, Charity. Your precious little mayor doesn’t care you’re defending him. If he cared about anyone in this town, he wouldn’t have let Fahrenheit-“

Hancock fired a round right past Finn’s cheek. It scraped the skin violently, but didn’t pierce, just earning him a yell of pain and stumble back against the gate. Charity, for the second time, had just brushed death via an angry man’s weapon, and frankly was starting to get sick of it.

But she couldn’t make herself yell at him, she realized. Not when Hancock looked like that.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” he growled. “Before I put a bullet between those teeth.”

“Hancock!” Charity yelled. She grabbed the barrel of the gun and forced it aside, “Get a hold on yourself! This ain’t gonna help anybody, an’ you know that. What…” she gulped, “What happened to Fahrenheit?”

Finn piped up while he wiped the blood off his cheek. “She and Bobbi got into it. She found out Bobbi was gonna raid Hancock’s warehouse. Then, Bobbi decided she’d come back with firepower, so she hired a whole fuckin’ Gunner gang to raid it too. Fahrenheit was the only one guarding it, because _Hancock_ didn’t think Bobbi fuckin’ No-Nose would bring _backup_!”

Her stomach flipped itself in distaste. Charity’s hands met her mouth, and when she looked back at Hancock, he wasn’t looking at her. Just the ground, with eyes sad enough to make her own start to water. “Is she…”

“No,” he hissed, defensive of the notion, “No, she ain’t dead. Yet. But they’re sayin’ she _will_ be if I don’t pay a ransom.”

“Not just a ransom – they want control of all of goddamn Goodneighbor. And he’ll give it, too, to make sure little miss trigger-happy comes back home,” Finn sneered, “If it were up to me, I’d say let her d-“

The back of Charity’s hand met with his cheek. A red, quickly welting mark was left in its place. As the air went quiet without even a drifter daring to cough, Charity only leveled her smoldering, white-hot glare at Finn, shoulders trembling from the effort it took not to beat him over the head then and there. “I can’t _believe_ ,” she hissed, “That y’ would say somethin’ so _heartless_. That’s a human bein’. That’s a _person_. An’ y’ would say let her _die_?”

She realized in the back of her mind, somehow, that her hand was shaking, and that she could barely see Finn through the blurriness in her eyes, but Charity didn’t care. She couldn’t make herself care. All she felt was hurt, and distaste, and rage. “Maybe I don’t get how y’all do things here, an’ maybe I’m soft, but if bein’ soft means that I don’t think like _you_ , then I ain’t gonna change any time soon.” With clinical detachment, she leaned back, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t have saved you.”

Charity didn’t wait for Finn’s response. She turned back to Hancock, stepped forward, and put her hand on his shoulder. He flinched at the contact.

“Where’s the warehouse?” she asked. He scoffed.

“Sister, you can’t go in there. They’ll eviscerate you.”

“We don’t know that. We _can’t_ know that.” The effort it took to keep her voice steady was worth it, judging by the growing trust in Hancock’s eyes, “An’ I was workin’ for her too, though I didn’t know she was plannin’ this. It’s partially my responsibility. I care about her too.” She bit her lip. “Please?”

Hancock stared for an uncomfortably long time, like he was trying to reach some answer she didn’t have, but finally he sighed and placed his scarred hand over hers. The thumb stroked her knuckle – she had a feeling more for his sake than hers. “We’ll go together, then. I…thanks, Charity. I mean it.”

She smiled at him. Hancock tried to smile back.

* * *

 

Fahrenheit held in a yell as the back of Bobbi’s gun cracked across her jaw. She was given just enough time to process before it hit her again, this time on her temple, and through the swirling bleariness of her consciousness fading in and out, she saw Bobbi smirk, leering and cruel.

“Shows what happens when we get too comfortable, huh?” she whispered. “C’mon, don’t act like you didn’t have this coming. I even gave you a chance to join up with me.”

“Please,” Fahrenheit managed, voice hoarse, “I’d rather fuck a deathclaw.”

Another crack. Another quickly swelling bruise, this time under her eye. “Ungrateful brat,” Bobbi hissed, “Got too damn pampered when he took you in. Should’ve kept you hungry – hungry like the rest of us. Then you’d know he ain’t right for Goodneighbor.”

“Funny thing is, we agree,” she coughed. A thick red stain splatted on the floor in front of her. “But that’s only because Goodneighbor’s full of tyrants. Like you. And Hancock ain’t a tyrant.”

“Keep talkin’,” Bobbi growled, “I’ll show you what a tyrant looks like.”

“Bobbi,” Winlock groaned behind her, “Hey, cut the bloodshow shit for a second, yeah? We’ve got someone approaching.”

From her non-swollen eye, Fahrenheit watched Bobbi pivot, looking curiously to the warehouse entrance. Bobbi shot Winlock a glare and put a hand on her hip.

“Well, don’t keep a girl waiting,” she said, “Who is it? Hancock?”

“Yeah,” Winlock scratched his chin, “But he’s got someone with him, the scouts say. Some blonde chick with a rifle.”

“Charity?” Fahrenheit whispered. Bobbi just rolled her eyes.

“Oh, _that_ greenhorn. She’s less than a threat, boys. I ain’t never seen someone so wet behind the ears in my life. Hancock’s practically solo, dragging her along.”

Fahrenheit’s mind was reeling. Charity was coming. And Hancock. The two people that she expressly did _not_ want to see her like this. Beaten, bloody, tied to a pillar with Ashmaker on the other fucking side of the warehouse. She already felt her ego deflating, smaller than it was, which at the moment was pretty damn subatomic. She could’ve taken them. She _should_ have taken them. That was her job. Her one fucking job – and she’d failed it.

“Well? Do we let them in, boss?” Winlock asked. Bobbi just waved her hand.

“Yeah, yeah. I want to see the look on his face when he realizes how easy it is to take everything he loves away.” She smirked. “You boys can do whatever you like with the greenhorn, too, if smoothskins are your thing.”

Fahrenheit kicked her leg at Bobbi and got her in the ankle. Bobbi yelled, then growled and drove her foot through Fahrenheit’s gut, laughing like a hyena when she was rewarded with another cough of blood. The world was spinning again.

“Don’t get so worked up,” Bobbie jeered, “Ain’t a good look for you, sugar.” She turned to Winlock. “Wave them in.”

The doors opened. Fahrenheit could barely see it from her fading vision, but it was sure Charity and Hancock – she’d know that long braid and tricorn anywhere. Maybe that was all she needed to see, too, because it was shortly after that her vision went black, and she collapsed in her restraints, letting sweet unconsciousness spare her from the next scene.

* * *

 

Charity watched Hancock’s gaze beeline to Fahrenheit. The sudden peal of bile in her throat was hard to contain at the sight – the girl was near unrecognizable apart from her signature copper hair. Her face was swollen with bruises layered like a cake, her arms were bare and scratched, and her ankle looked twisted at an unnatural angle. All Fahr did was look at them, smile something bloody and beaten, and then her eyes rolled back in her head and she went limp. Only the smallest rise in her chest told Charity she was still alive.

She turned back to Bobbi, who was standing proud over the whole seen, one hand on her hip. A few Gunner guards stood behind her, while more of them were perched on the upper rafters. A quick estimate brought her to about ten.

“Heya, greenhorn,” Bobbi called, “And mayor. Nice of y’all to drop by.”

“Bobbi,” Charity started, “Why? Y’ didn’t have t’ do this!”

“If we only did what we have to do in the world, kid, nobody would make progress.” Bobbi chuckled. “What’s that you said, Hancock? About getting too comfortable?”

“Heh,” he laughed without any warmth, “Don’t think my words are very applicable here, sister.”

“For once, we agree. Now let’s cut the crap.” One of Bobbi’s hands pointed to Fahrenheit. “The kid will live if you give us Goodneighbor. Plain and simple. It’s long overdue for a new mayor, and we both know that.”

Charity’s jaw clenched. Her eyes locked on Fahrenheit’s unconscious body, and though the urge to vomit had faded, the sheer sorrow made it hard to keep looking. She instead looked back at Bobbi, smugly straight and shoulders squared. She looked like she thought she was invincible. She looked like she had the world in her hands.

“An’ what makes y’ think that would work?” Charity said, “Y’ think y’ wouldn’t just get overthrown immediately?”

“Because I have them,” she jerked her finger at the Gunners, “Gunners sure do make persuasion easier, don’t you think?”

“You’re sick, Bobbi,” Charity stepped closer. “But it doesn’t have t’ end this way. Please, just give her back.”

“You heard my terms, kid,” Bobbi said, “Goodneighbor, or she bites it. Hell, at this point, it might just be both.”

She nearly smacked her then and there, but the multiple rifles pointed her way made her freeze. Even Hancock hadn’t said anything, but his tense shoulders told her he was angry enough to charge. Nobody wanted to move. Nobody wanted to breathe.

“You ain’t talkin’ outta this one, sunshine,” Hancock called from behind her. “Just…stop. It won’t work.”

His voice, so pleading, so _desperate_ that she wanted to cry, made Charity still. But she never took her eyes off Bobbi. Bobbi stared back at her. There wasn’t even a challenge in her glare, Charity realized, because she didn’t think she was _worth_ it. Bobbi looked at her the way a hunter looked at an already dead carcass – just waiting for the spoils to be reaped.

Victorious, that’s what that expression said. Domineering. A lord in their castle. Her loyal, trigger-happy subjects beside her, just waiting for the word.

Charity’s eyes narrowed. She turned to the Gunner next to Bobbi, who looked vaguely familiar in a way she didn’t care to place. “What did she pay you?”

“More than you can, sweetheart,” he said. “Don’t even try it.”

“I ain’t talkin’ about caps.” Charity jerked her head to Bobbi. “I beat her, I take her caps, then I’m your boss. Is that how this works?”

His brows shot up, but he did grin, chuckling in half-surprise. “Hey, she’s got bite. Bobbi, you said this kid was harmless?”

“She _is_ ,” Bobbi growled, “Just mouthy, too.”

He just shrugged and looked back at Charity. “Sure, kid. Let’s say that’s how this works. But even if you do take her place, we were promised Goodneighbor. You’ll still have to give it to us – we’re not walkin’ away without it.”

Hancock spoke from behind her, “What’s all this, Winlock? I thought you said you didn’t want any turf war shit with us. You Gunners ain’t known for your honesty, but seriously, brother…”

“We didn’t want a turf war when it looked like you took it seriously,” Winlock laughed, “But Bobbi’s got a point. The Hancock we knew was never this soft. Hell, props to your actin’, for fooling us this far.” Charity’s eyes locked on the way he cocked his gun, the way his weight swung around as he looked the mayor in the eye. “Yeah, you might bite a little bit, but it’s worth it.”

“An’ you think they’ll just let ya take it?” Charity shot in, “You’ve got ten Gunners, against the whole damn town?”

“It ain’t the whole town, doll, it’s just the kingpiece and his pawns.” Winlock rolled his eyes. “Take those down and they’ll fall in line eventually. Sure, they’ll be squabbles here and there, but they’ll be…manageable.”

The leer in his voice, the way he rolled that word, “manageable” around like rotten candy, it made her gut squirm. Charity had never felt so physically sick just from talking to someone. In her utmost restraint, she grit her teeth, willing her fist to unclench. It didn’t.

“Hancock,” she said, “Give it to them.”

“What?” he said, incredulous. She didn’t look back at him.

“Just give it to them, Hancock, an’ get Fahrenheit outta there,” she pleaded. She could tell by the muffled hiss in his throat that he was reminded of the redhead across from them, and then when he went silent, she tightened her lips against the sob in her throat. “Go back an’ tell everyone what happened. I need…I need y’ t’ trust me on this.”

She couldn’t see him, but she imagined he was frowning. “Hold on, sister, what are you plannin’ to do-“

“Hancock!” Charity said, louder, “Just – go. We lost. Fahrenheit’s gonna die if y’ keep her here any longer.” Suppressing her tremble, Charity turned back, and smiled the faintest smile over her shoulder. Yep, he was frowning, deeply.

“Charity,” he started, “You ain’t gonna-“

“What did y’ always tell me, mayor?” she said, voice soft, “Don’t turn down basic decency.”

His eyes, black and deep, were unreadable when she said that, but the tightness of his jaw was not. Hancock suddenly ducked his head as he walked past her. “Fine.” Was that betrayal in his tone, or disappointment? Whatever it was, it stung into her spine like a wasp, angry and unrelenting. With a snort, Bobbi and Winlock unlocked Fahrenheit and picked up her body, all but tossing it to Hancock, who wrapped his arms around her tight enough that she didn’t even wobble. Out of the corner of her eye, Charity saw him press his face into the crook of her neck. He said something. She didn’t know what it was.

Hancock had reached the door, but then he turned. When he spoke again, it was with a quiet, pessimistic disbelief. “Jones…you ain’t comin’?”

“I’ve got some words t’ say t’ Bobbi,” Charity muttered. “Just go.”

“…” She wasn’t sure if he knew, exactly, what she meant, but if he did, he said nothing. “We’ll be waitin’, sister,” was all he settled on, and then he was out the door with a firm _clang_. Charity was left with tears in her eyes and warmth in her throat, glaring at Bobbi who looked like she was being threatened by a radroach.

“Now, that wasn’t so hard,” Bobbi laughed, “What did you want to say, hm? Oh, did you want i-“

Charity’s fist met with her jaw in a resounding _crack_. Bobbi yelled, staggered, but had no time to recover before Charity was on her, fist driving repeatedly into her cheekbone, neck, anywhere her eyes landed. Bobbi finally scrapped her own fist up, colliding with her gut, but adrenaline dulled it and Charity just hit back even harder.

“This ain’t-“ another crack, “How it’s s’posed t’-“ and then a scratch, “-To BE!” She rose her fist up again, but Bobbi caught it and flipped them, pinning Charity down into the dirt.

“And how was it supposed to be, huh?” Bobbi hissed. Charity struggled underneath her. “This is the world, this is what it turned into! You never saw what it was before!” The ghoul’s fist sank into Charity’s gut again and she coughed, red splattering across her lips. “You want to talk to me about how it was supposed to be, sister? You think I thought the world was supposed to die?” Raspy, Bobbi leaned down, eyes wild, “Match the world or it’ll eat you up!”

“I saw what it was before!” she yelled, “I saw it die too! I saw it die an’ take my family with it!” Charity shot her knee up and caught Bobbi in the stomach, and then she used the shock to turn them back over again. Her braid swung down, drooping by Bobbi’s shoulder.

She tried to hold her, but her underestimation of ghoul strength cost her the upper hand and Bobbi flipped them again. One of her hands went to hold Charity’s wrists, while she saw the other go for Bobbi’s pocket, and from there she pulled a small, glittering knife. A needle of fear pierced her heart.

“You didn’t see shit,” Bobbi snarled, “You ain’t a ghoul, smoothskin. Can’t pull the wool over that easy.” She raised the knife. On impulse Charity shot her head up, butting Bobbi in the forehead hard enough to make them both yell. But Charity recovered quicker and knocked the knife from Bobbi’s hand. She had to get the upper hand. Bobbi had made her intentions very, very clear.

One final roll and Charity was on top again, eyes wild as she fumbled for Pickman’s knife in her pocket. Once it was out she shakily held it against Bobbi’s throat, eyes locked on the thin sliver of blood earned from the ghoul’s struggling. “I don’t wanna do this, Bobbi,” she pleaded, “I don’t, please, I don’t-“

“I think you do, sister,” Bobbi hissed, moving less but still panting, her pulse against the blade, “Go on, kill me. Maybe it’ll get in your head that you can’t save everybody. You ain’t got the guts to live here. Ain’t got the spirit.”

“You said the world killed you, Bobbi,” she sobbed, eyes hot as her tears landed on Bobbi’s cheeks, “But that don’t mean it gotta kill me too.”

Something snapped in Bobbi and she screamed in fury, reaching up to snatch Charity by the throat. The motion drug her neck straight through the knife.

Distantly, Charity realized that it cut like butter, skin merely a suggestion as the blood sprayed, coating Charity’s shirt in red. Bobbi spluttered. Charity felt her gut lurch. It felt like an eternity of coughing, threats, of whispers and pleading for something unknown, before Bobbi was finally still, and Charity was panting above her corpse.

She’d done it again.

“Well, damn,” Winlock said, “That was sure fun to watch. I guess you’re less of a greenhorn than we thought.” He grinned just a bit wider. “Want to join up with us? Of course, you can always go back to Goodneighbor and get killed. I think you know the smarter option.”

His voice sounded foggy. Charity wondered if she’d done something to her ears, because by the time she finally processed what he’d said, the stench of blood was swimming so thickly in her nose that she thought she might drown. Slowly, she blinked, unsure what she was actually looking at. That’s right. She had to respond.

“…Do I?” she said, gaze vacant. Charity didn’t turn to him. “I ain’t so sure anymore.”

Winlock rose a brow. “Anyway, when you wanna start making sense, we can get this deal going. Are you helping us, or going to their side?”

Her head turned. The wetness of Bobbi’s blood slid against her throat while she stared at Winlock, like she couldn’t figure him out, like he was a passage in a foreign language. Charity blinked. Everything seemed so blurry. And so red. Why did everything look so red?

“I…” Charity felt blood pounding in her ears. She vaguely recognized Winlock’s expression changing, shifting to something akin to concern. Something angry was boiling in her chest, trembling her hands, her shoulders. “I…”

“Damn, this is taking too long,” he muttered. Winlock raised his gun to her forehead. “Goodnight, vaultie.”

Her eyes snapped wide. “I don’t think so.”

Charity grabbed the barrel of the gun and pushed it back, the butt catching Winlock in the nose. He yelled, growled, and lunged forward, but couldn’t fire a shot before she was up again and had her hands around his throat. Winlock spluttered while she squeezed. With reddening cheeks, he motioned at the other stunned Gunners.

“Don’t just stand there, dumbasses,” he yelled, “Get her!”

Charity whirled and suddenly Winlock was in front of her, Pickman’s knife at his throat while she stared down the others. Their guns stilled. With wild eyes, she sucked in a breath, but her grip was steady as a rock. She felt her lip curl in distaste. “I dare ya,” she hissed, “But he’s gettin’ just as many bullets as y’ give me. Go on.”

“Crazy bitch,” Winlock wheezed. “You ain’t no greenhorn, Bobbi fucking lied-“

“Bobbi’s dead.” Charity turned her empty gaze to him. “I suggest y’ stop listenin’ t’ her now.”

She turned back to the others. “Guns down,” she said. When they didn’t comply, she only tightened her blade against Winlock’s throat, drawing a thin red line down his skin. “I said, guns down!”

One of the guards paused. Charity watched him, waiting for him to crouch. Instead, he just started chuckling – something small, at first, raspy and whispered, and it grew until the rest of them were howling in laughter, like a pack of hyenas crazed on psycho. Winlock’s eyes went wide, while Charity just frowned deeper. The closest guard piped up.

“What, you think we give a shit about that bastard?” he drawled, “Go on, kill him. We’ll just kill you next.”

“Are you serious?” Winlock growled, “I’m your fuckin’ chief, jackass!”

“Yeah, and a shitty one,” he retorted. “She’s doing us a favor, honestly.”

Charity’s breath hitched. She felt her grip start to tremble again, her eyes start to tear up. Her grip must have faltered, because Winlock suddenly snatched her wrist, pressing his thumb on the nerve and making her drop the knife. It clattered on the metal grating. Charity yelled in pain while he bent her hand, and with a victorious grin, Winlock just cackled.

“Can’t play hero all the time, girlie,” he sneered, “Did you really think you’d take out ten Gunners on your own?”

“No,” Charity whined, “Please, it hurts-“

“Like I give a shit. You’re almost more trouble than you’re worth. But, hey,” he dragged her up by her arm and leaned close, breath like alcohol and Jet, “Not half bad to look at. Maybe we’ll keep you around for some _entertainment_.”

* * *

 

Hancock lugged Fahrenheit through the gates, greeted by Daisy the second the door opened. The older ghoul made a sound of disgust and remorse, and then gently pried her out of Hancock’s shaking arms, turning to him afterwards.

“Get her every goddamn stimpack and Med-X we’ve got,” he said, nearly a growl, “And whoever’s watch she dies under is gettin’ my knife in their throat as repayment.”

Daisy wasn’t perturbed. She just tightened her lips and nodded, handing Fahrenheit to two watchmen who carried the girl inside, gentle as glass. When she’d made sure they got in, she pivoted to Hancock, eyes locked on the noticeable tremor in his fingers.

“They’re gonna try to take Goodneighbor?” she said, barely a whisper. Hancock scoffed.

“Hell if I’m gonna let ‘em. They want a turf war? That’s what they’re fuckin’ getting.” His tone caught on the last word, though, softening the delivery. He cursed himself. If the worry in Daisy’s dark eyes was any indication, he wasn’t nearly as convincing as he wanted to be. Hell, he doubted he could have charmed himself, in this situation.

“Where’s the kid?” Daisy asked. His shoulders stiffened.

“She stayed back,” he said, “Said she- she had some shit to sort out. With Bobbi.” The finality of it made his heart seize. Charity barely looked at him when he left. Just told him to go, to get Fahrenheit. He’d never seen her look smaller than that moment, and like an idiot, like a cowardly, _soft_ , dumbass, he’d actually left her alone. Another person under his watch. Who knows what they’d made of her at this point.

He snarled to himself. Damn it, hadn’t he told her about being a martyr? And then there she went, throwing herself into the enemy territory because she just had to play the god damned hero. And he _let_ her. Just stood by and watched what were probably her last moments. Stood by and watched, just like he did with Vic.

Daisy shocked him from his thoughts by slapping him upside the tricorn. He hissed, baring his teeth, and jerked his head up, only to see equal ferocity in her dark eyes. “Looking like a kicked mutt isn’t going to help anybody, Hancock. Bare your teeth for a little more than a slap on the head.”

Her set jaw went even tighter. “If you could take down Vic and his boys with a rag-tag crew of dumbasses and drunkards, you can handle some goddamn Gunners.” Her grip tightened. Hancock wanted, so badly, to listen to her, but the guilt, the mental image of the back of Charity’s shoulders, trembling and tiny nearly made him crumple again.

“You’re thinking of Charity, aren’t you?” Daisy said softly. He nodded. “Good. Whatever she did, she did it for _you_ , Hancock, and all of us – so don’t let it be in vain.”

It was hard to manage, but Hancock, at least for her sake, plastered a smirk onto his face. Daisy mirrored his expression. Her fingers tightened on his shoulder. “That’s a little bit better,” she said. “But I ain’t seein’ those fangs of yours, mayor.”

“Hard to get fangs when I barely feel like a predator, Daisy,” he grumbled, “You didn’t…you didn’t see her. Some sacrificial shit. It’s just…echoing back at me.”

Daisy shook her head. “The Hancock I know doesn’t let nonsense “echo”. He just shuts the noise off at the source.”

Like a light switch, he felt something alight in his chest – small and driven. Harsh enough to scratch at him, and only amplified by the memory of Charity’s retreating shoulders. When she turned to look at him, that sad smile, and Winlock’s leer at the curve of her neck…

People that twisted usually got divine punishment. Hancock was sure, this time, that God wouldn’t mind if he beat him to the punch.

Hancock’s crooked little smirk spread wider. It thinned out in his face until that shit was downright sinister, and judging by the flash of appreciation in Daisy’s eyes, it was exactly the kind of look he needed to have. “Damn, Daisy,” he rasped, “You sure know how to motivate a guy.”

“Of course I do.” She grinned back at him. “Now let’s show these boys why you don’t mess with Goodneighbor.”

Hancock sighed, then nodded, and eyed the balcony from the state house. “I think it’s time for a rally, yeah?”

* * *

 

“Now, listen, everybody,” his voice carried from the balcony, and as he propped his hands on the railing, Hancock felt the familiarity ease into his bones like pillars, holding him up against the weight in his chest, “You may have heard the news. One of our own was taken by the Gunners, and though she’s back, they’ve got another in there. A gal who gave herself for the sake of people she’s known barely a month.”

He saw the indecision, the unease in his subjects’ eyes. Hancock straightened himself, as if to compensate. “And what I wanna know, is why these jokers think that’s acceptable. Why they see a good town, of the people, for the people, like us, and think it’s suddenly prime fuckin’ real estate. You know who does shit like that? Tyrants.” Hancock saw that spark in their eyes, small but burning. “Are we tyrants, Goodneighbor?” A few mumbled no’s spread, so he growled, raised his fist and yelled, “I said, are we fuckin’ _tyrants_ , Goodneighbor?”

They erupted in a chorus of disagreement. He kept his fist in the air, pumping it while they cheered, and only lowered it to ensure a quick hush over the crowd. “Now here’s what we’re gonna do. They think I’m soft. They think I’m forgetful. They think I’m just gonna hand y’all over on a silver platter. Does that sound like somethin’ I’d do, hm?”

“Fuck no, Hancock!” a voice yelled. He grinned.

“Damn right it doesn’t.”

He turned and gestured to the gate with one proud, scarred finger. “The lot of them are holed up at the storehouse. Probably, they’ll be marching over here any minute. What we’re gonna do is meet them there _first_.” His tone evened. “Anyone that wants to go, can go. If you don’t wanna fight, hell, I’m not holdin’ it against you. Elderly, sick, injured – you’re stayin’ here.”

In the back of the crowd, Daisy nodded at him, chin high and proud. Hancock couldn’t help but nod back. “Now then, I’ve got one last question for you,” he said, “We freaks, we gotta stick together. And the best way to stick together? Is to keep an eye out for what drives us apart. Now then…” he felt his smile grow sharper, eyes narrow, “What kind of twisted, un-neighborly bastards would wanna do shit like this?”

“The Gunners!” a triggerman yelled, “And the Institute!”

“Damn fuckin’ right, my man. When this is over, you’re getting’ a drink.” Hancock laughed. “Now, who’s with me?”

As the cheering erupted and he took it in, Hancock felt something stirring in his chest, angry and determined and vengeful, but hungry – the kind of hunger that took down Vic. It burrowed its way into his heart. It felt warm. It felt proud.

It felt like hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all...this chapter killed me. I don't know what it was about it, but writer's block was a bITCH and anyways enjoy the cliffhanger :3


	9. Good, Good Neighbor - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hancock learns the price of being soft.
> 
> -Trigger warnings for rape implications (no action of it), graphic violence and injury.-

_“I shouldn’t have saved you.”_

Finn sat against the brick corner of one of the Triggerman warehouses. He felt along the seams of his road leathers, giving his fingers something to do other than re-caress his knife for the fiftieth time. His new knife. Because he’d given the other one away.

To someone who he guessed wouldn’t need it anymore.

Good thing half the neighborhood was rallying with Hancock, he realized, so that nobody would see him all but moping like a beaten dog. He could have at least stood, he mused, and passed off his brooding as casual indifference to the revolution behind him. Yeah, folks would believe that. He was Finn – heartless, vicious, out for himself and nobody else who didn’t pay the price. He wasn’t the kind of guy to get caught up in the details. Or the mush. Or the well-being of pretty, innocent vaulties whose last words to him were ones of regret.

God damn it. He needed to take a walk.

Finn managed to sneak out the gate easy enough while Hancock kept the crowd distracted, letting his feet carry him through the rubble and grime that seemed to grow every day like mold. Oh, look, a few more bodies were out by the gate. Raiders, this time. Guess some Super Mutants had eaten the Gunners from yesterday.

He wasn’t necessarily sure where he was going. Just…away. Away from the memory. Away from where Charity had glared at him hours ago like he’d betrayed _her_ , personally, because she gave a shit about people. Damn, he gave a shit about them too, he realized. He gave a lot of shits. He gave so many shits about that town that it infuriated him when Hancock didn’t run it right, placed the people in danger, just because he forgot how to be a threat. How to be more dangerous than anyone else, because that was the only way to survive.

And now someone else was going to die for it.

“God-damn it!” He suddenly yelled, and struck his fist against a building. His knuckles bled on the brick, but he kept punching, over and over and over again until he realized he’d lost feeling a while ago. His hand was shaking with the effort to raise it again. Halfway to one last punch, his shoulder was suddenly grabbed, softly. He jerked with a hiss akin to a feral.

“ _Off_ ,” he growled. The man behind him put up his hands in mock innocence, but there was no fear in his eyes. Bastard was weirdly clean, too. Not the usual dirty drifters who wanted to try him.

“Beg your pardon,” he said slowly. “I just noticed you came from the direction of Goodneighbor. Might I ask you for a favor?”

“You see a man like me, punchin’ the shit outta a wall, and you ask him for a favor?” Finn snorted, “You got guts, pal. But I’m not in the mood. Now scram before I take those guts out.”

“How uncivilized,” Mr. Favor sighed. “I was only going to ask you to deliver a letter.”

“My fuckin’ condolences for whatever happened to your ears, because apparently you can’t hear,” Finn shot back, turning towards him fully, “I said, _get. Lost._ ”

The other man jerked back. With visible distaste, he brushed some imaginary dust off his coat. “Uncivilized and rude. The Goodneighbor special, it seems. Very well, I’ll just deliver it myself.” He straightened. “Do you happen to know a young woman named Charity?”

He froze. The pain in his hand seemed to amplify just with that name, along with the tug in his gut. Sweet guilt showing its’ ugly face again. “…Why?”

“So you do.” A smile returned to the man’s face. Something about it just seemed wrong. “Excellent. Give this to her, will you?” Suddenly, a small envelope was thrust into his hands, and when he looked up in question, the man just smirked. “No rush, don’t worry.”

“Nah, see,” Finn started, lip curling, “There’s a few issues with that. One, namely, even if I gave a shit about your letter, I couldn’t give it to her anyway.” Something in the man’s eyes changed. Finn suddenly felt like he was walking around landmines.

“Do tell,” he purred. “Why would that be?”

“Because by now, she’s probably fuckin’ dead.” Finn shoved the letter back, but the man didn’t take it. It just fell with a special kind of anticlimax to the ground. Its’ recipient just stared at him, all pretense of politeness vanished from his face.

Then a hand was at Finn’s throat and he was back against the wall. God damn, this guy was _strong_. He choked, spluttering, staring at the weird emptiness of his assailant’s eyes. Like he was looking at nothing.

“It’s in your best interest,” he started, “To tell me where she is.”

“F-Fuck you, pal!” Finn hissed, “I ain’t got no reason to tell you! No reason to tell anybody! Shove that and your stupid letter up your- agh!” The fingers around his throat tightened considerably, and Finn felt his vision start to fade.

The attacker sighed. Like he was boring. “I don’t want to do this. You aren’t being very cooperative.”

“Yeah, never am, am I?” he managed, “Go on, kill me, see if I give a shit!” One crooked smile cracked across his jaw, “I don’t give a damn about her, or about you, or about nobody- fuckin’ end it!”

Quietly, a realization spread across his face, and then Finn was suddenly dropped and landed on his knees, and as a violent series of coughs overtook him, he couldn’t spare a glance at the face of the man in front of him. He didn’t need to. His tone was just as indifferent as it had always been.

“You wanted to die, then, hm?” he said lowly. “I apologize. I’m not in the business of assisting.”

Finn looked up to hiss, spit, anything – but he was gone. Only the dust remained in his footsteps.

* * *

 

“Cmon,” Winlock sneered, “At least cry or somethin’. Don’t make this boring for us, doll.”

Charity stared back at him. Winlock seemed entirely unaware of just how close to his wish she was, because the heat in her eyes and the wobble in her lower lip threatened to break with every bruise he added to her cheek, or every kick in the ribs they drew with their boots. Something felt vaguely broken. Something else felt _not_ vaguely broken.

When she said nothing, Winlock hissed and kicked her again. Charity yelped sharply, curling in on herself, but the cuffs around her hands only allowed her so much movement. Whatever reaction she’d given, it pleased Winlock sickly, as he leered and crouched in front of her. One of his thick fingers tilted up her chin.

“I see why Hancock kept you around,” he said, “Even he’s got taste.”

Charity spit at him. Blood was mixed with it. Winlock recoiled in disgust, retaliated with another smack to her cheek, loud enough to crack across the warehouse and even make some of the other Gunners wince. Charity wished she could have said she’d grown distant from the pain now, or that she’d alienated her mind from what was happening, but the truth was that it _hurt_ , that smack and the ones before it and the thought of the ones coming after, it hurt so much that she was exhausted trying to pretend otherwise.

“Winlock,” one of the Gunners said, “I know you’re having fun and all, but Goodneighbor’s waitin’. Shouldn’t we get a move on?”

“…Yeah,” Winlock muttered, eyes hot, “Hey, why don’t we take the girlie with us? Let Hancock know what happens to his people get when he goes soft.”

Her muscles stiffened and Charity suddenly leaned forward, wincing against her cuffs. “No!” she yelled. That got their attention. Winlock jerked his head, but she already saw the beginnings of that twisted grin forming on his face. Shit. Shit, she’d done it now.

“Aw, she’s worried, is she?” He cackled, “Good, you should be. We’re gonna show you and Hancock and every fuckin’ body what happens when you forget who you are, and what you stand for. How should we do it, huh?” He grabbed her braid and tugged her closer. His breath was rancid, alcoholic and chem-fueled, and Charity felt herself growing nauseous. “Should we kill you in front of him? Or have some fun with you first, huh, while he can’t do shit?”

“Sick bastard,” Charity finally hissed, voice hoarse. “You’ll get what’s comin’ to ya.”

“Work on your threats, doll,” Winlock grumbled. He released her and stood back up again. “Let’s get movin’, then.”

She had to think fast. Any moment they waited on advancing was a moment the people in Goodneighbor could prepare, run away, _anything_. Hancock had to have told them by now. If she could just buy them some more time to escape…

As Winlock raised his foot to step down, Charity shot out hers, catching his ankle and sending him tumbling. He spluttered, barely grabbing the railing to steady himself and then snarled, stomping right back up to snatch her hair again. This time, he tugged harder, hard enough that she felt those traitorous tears leak from her eyes when he yanked her up. Her shoulders ached painfully against the stretching.

“Real funny,” he growled. Winlock threw her back down and her head cracked against one of the boxes. “You’re getting somethin’ special for that, girlie.”

He advanced. Charity saw him draw his knife. The blade glinted in the streaming sunlight from the window, bouncing off and onto her like a macabre spotlight. Heart hammering, she could only watched as he crouched in front of her again, watched her like a _thing_ , hardly like something living. _I’m going to die here_ , she realized. _This is the last face I’m going to see_.

So she closed her eyes. Something else, someone else, anybody to distract her – and the only one she pictured was Hancock’s scarred smile, the jaunty tip of his tricorn while he leveled her with a smirk. The way he’d soothed her, that first time she woke up to him. _Damn, sister_ , he’d said, _I bet you got one hell of a story to tell_.

And she’d never told him.

This was what regret felt like. Charity realized she’d never actually felt regret before – something that could have been done better, maybe, and perhaps guilt over things in the past…but this was different. This was pure, painful, aching _regret_ ; she should have told him, told more people, shouldn’t have closed herself off because this world was too painful to recognize. This was what happened when she didn’t accept reality. This was her punishment.

_Punishment for what?_ She wanted to beg, _I haven’t done anything wrong! I never did now, I never did before, why do I always wind up like this?_

Other Gunners began to chuckle as she felt Winlock’s knife cut into the sleeve of her shirt. He peeled the fabric as it cut away, strip by strip, tauntingly. Charity felt a sob building in her throat, but kept her eyes closed.

_This world doesn’t want you anymore, Charity. It barely wanted you before the war. But now? You have no place._

She was shaking. The knife idly cut into a few inches of her skin and she screamed, which only spurred Winlock on more as he cut a deeper gash along her collarbone. It was white-hot, blinding, and still Charity kept her eyes closed. She wouldn’t look at him. He wouldn’t be her last face.

_You said you wouldn’t let the world kill you too? Then what’s happening now? Who’s the one on the end of a knife?_

Another gash into her arm. Another scream. Another strip of fabric peeled away.

_The only ones who can survive in this world are the ones who carved a place for themselves._

Pain. More pain. More fabric.

_So start carving._

Her eyes snapped open to find Winlock inches from her, knife poised at her stomach. She gave him one, maybe two moments of realization before she wound her boot up and shoved it into his gut, hard enough to propel him off the rail-less walkway. A dull _thud_ sounded as he landed on the ground below. A few of the other Gunners started to attention, but Charity worked her leg around one of the storage boxes closest to her, and with another strong kick, sent it sliding into their calves. Two of the Gunners also toppled over the rail.

“Fuckin’ troublesome little bitch!” Winlock roared from below, “You’re dead! Fuck Hancock, I’ll kill you right now!”

Charity was already fishing a bobby pin from her bags and working it into the cuffs. The rusted joints probably weren’t very reliable with 200 years of wear, radiation, and unsaid other things, but if she could just…

They were stomping up the grate. Her fingers worked faster. Small little clicks sounded before she abandoned pretense of professionalism and just wiggled her digits furiously – and either through sheer determination or blind luck, it opened. No time to rub the feeling back in her hands, though, because Winlock’s head poked through the stairs and she was up on her feet.

Oh, god, that wasn’t a good idea. The blood loss had Charity swaying. Still, she grabbed onto a box for support and spotted her rifle across the walkway – along with Winlock, who was nearly to the top.

Her “running” wasn’t so much running as it was blind tumbling and rapid shuffles, but it was quick enough to narrowly miss Winlock’s searching hand and push her to the wall. The rifle was comfortable in her waiting grip. Also, a hell of a lot heavier. They’d _really_ done a number on her arms.

Even as she raised it, however, Winlock and the others laughed. “What,” he jeered, “You’re not gonna use that thing. You would’ve done it a long time ago if you knew how.”

“Oh, darlin’,” she muttered, “I _know_ how.”

The shoulder of one of the guards in the back suddenly exploded into red. He screamed and crumpled, dropping his gun. Charity was quick to jump on one of the boxes to keep out the barrage of bullets through the grating at her feet, and aimed another set of lead into two more guards – they both went down with wounds to their arms.

But another Gunner was raising his rifle, she realized. Charity had his head in her scope. She felt that familiar pang of guilt, fear seizing her fingers-

_So start carving_.

He went down with a new hole between his eyes. Charity breathed out. Only a few more were left. Winlock, now panicked, stomped the rest of the way up the stairs and raised his gun – two bullets went into her side and she screamed, going down on her knee. Winlock didn’t even take the time to taunt. He just reloaded, adrenaline stumbling his fingers.

Somehow, through the pain, Charity had raised her gun too – but when she pulled the trigger all she got was an empty _click_. Shit.

Winlock furiously shoved the last bullet in the chamber just as Charity propelled herself up, using more momentum than muscle to lug the butt of her rifle against his temple. It _cracked_ , nearly reverberating against the warehouse as he stumbled against the pain. She wasted no time in swinging it again, but he caught it, and shoved it out of her weakened hands. It clattered uselessly off the walkway.

Charity hissed and launched herself at him. He was too confused to shoot and she kept it that way, scratching, pushing, pummeling – anything to keep his fingers off the trigger. Winlock barely managed to push her back by the face but she bit into his thumb, hard enough to draw blood and send him yelling.

The distraction was long enough. Charity grabbed the barrel of his gun. A few shots of fury were fired into the ceiling, Winlock furiously trying to aim it back at her. She didn’t relent, just put her entire body weight into the push, angling it up, and when he was more focused on the trigger than her she aimed her kick at his groin. It was sickly satisfying how quick he went down.

She was able to tug the gun from him after that and toss it behind her. Winlock looked up at her, something feral in his gaze, and she was sure she mirrored the expression, both of them panting and angry and intense. Something like validation bubbled in her chest. She might not survive this, she realized. But damn if she wasn’t going to go down swinging.

* * *

 

A man was waiting for Hancock inside his office. The second his speech ended and he’d stepped back through the beaten wooden door, he went still at the person before him, irritatingly comfortable on his couch with one leg crossed over the other. The pose was nothing if not relaxed. That is, if one didn’t notice the near predatory gleam in his eye.

“Hello,” the stranger greeted. “I let myself in.”

“So you did, brother,” Hancock managed. Tucked under his jacket was his shotgun, which he lightly stroked with his middle finger. Just a reminder. “Sorry, not givin’ tours right now.”

The man smiled. There was absolutely no joy behind it. “Don’t worry. I’m not in a vacationing mood. No, dear mayor, I just came here with a question.”

“Make it quick?” Hancock said, not managing to conceal his irritation. “We’re in the middle of a little retribution at the moment.”

“That’s the nature of the question.” He grinned wider. “I heard the ending of your speech. I would like to help.”

“…Not that you ain’t the most trustworthy son of a bitch I’ve met,” Hancock eyed him as he strolled closer, close enough to see the fastidious nature of his suit, patched yet pressed and clean, down to the slicked ponytail at the nape of his neck. Something was familiar. _Eerily_ familiar. “But I’m gonna need a good reason, brother. Ain’t often folks volunteer out the goodness of their hearts to fight radroaches, let alone Gunners.”

And then the stranger laughed, clear, open, a sound that didn’t belong out of someone like him. “Oh, mayor. There hasn’t been goodness in my heart for a very long time now. I do find it weighs me down.” One of his fingers tapped idly in thought. “No, ah, I have a personal investment in this. One might call it a vendetta.”

Hancock’s eyes narrowed. The man only stared back, and boy was it strange that he felt _challenged_ when all he’d done was offer to help. This stranger seemed to smart to know he wasn’t helping his case here. Too smart, too clean, too familiar and it was all pissing him off just the tiniest bit.

But damn if he didn’t look like he could hold his own.

“I’ve always said I had a devil take me attitude…” Hancock muttered. “Alright, stranger. Give me a name, at least.”

“Oh,” the man rose a brow. That challenge was amplified. “I think you know it already. You sent a lovely lady to my Gallery just the other day.”

Hancock’s shotgun was out and aimed before he even finished the sentence. When he spoke, it was a growl. “ _Pickman_.”

“That’s not very polite,” Pickman said, sighing. “I’m offering to help. Did you not hear that?”

“I got a serial killer in my house, in my _town_ , and you think I care about politeness?” he hissed. “Brother, you’re a special kinda stupid.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve been here. You do remember the gift basket, don’t you?” Pickman said slowly, carefully, like Hancock was a dog that needed taming. “If I wanted to do anything, I would have. I have no bias against you, or your town.” His dark eyes fell to the shotgun. “Yet.”

For an agonizing amount of time, Hancock was quiet, and Pickman was deathly still. At least he had the brains to realize moving would cost him a good bit of brain matter. His finger itched for the trigger. Itched to put those snakelike eyes out of his sight.

Charity’s own eyes replaced them, though, along with the thought of her grin and everything else about her. Those retreating shoulders. That he’d left behind.

Hancock lowered the gun and sighed. “Thin fuckin’ ice, pal, but fine. We’re setting out with some of the watch in just a bit. Don’t slow us down.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Pickman purred. Hancock watched him retrieve a knife, polished and kept, from his pocket. He inspected it while he spoke. “When you’re ready, say the word.”

* * *

 

“What are you waiting for?” Winlock yelled, dodging Charity’s fist to his cheek, “Shoot her already!”

The non-incapacitated Gunners grimaced, while one gestured with his pipe pistol. “You’re moving too fast, Winlock! You wanna go down with her?”

“Call yourselves Gunners and you can’t even aim,” he grumbled, before Charity landed a hit to his side.

“Neither can _you_ , it seems,” she taunted. It was a charade, her confidence. Charity could almost _feel_ her consciousness leaking out with the blood from her wounds, and deep down she knew adrenaline wasn’t going to dull the pain for long. Not that her steps were ever steady to begin with, but now it was even less so and she had to fight to keep her balance on the thin walkway.

Winlock launched at her. She barely dodged, throwing herself to the ground with a cracking _clang_ against the grating. It stung sharply into her shoulder – oh, yeah, something was definitely broken. Well, even if she could use her arms properly, it wouldn’t do much good; Charity wasn’t strong enough to end him with a punch. Pickman’s knife was glittering on the ground where she’d dropped it, but if she went down there she’d get eaten by lead.

But as she turned, a small pressure in her back pocket made her pause – not for long because Winlock had a kick coming with her name on it. Charity rolled out of the way and shoved another box at him. That pressure in her pocket again – a quick pat confirmed the shape. Finn’s knife. She’d forgotten Finn’s knife in her pocket.

No time to feel stupid. Plenty of time to realize throwing herself to the ground was a very not good decision, because now her legs didn’t want to put in the effort to get back up. Winlock seemed to realize this. He looked morbidly haloed by the storehouse light, panting and bloody and grinning as he stood over her. Finn’s knife or not, Charity was fucked.

“Last words, girlie?” he hissed, bringing out a knife of his own. Charity only stared at the tip.

“I…” she started, “I just-“

“W-Winlock!” came the cry of a Gunner and then a wet squelch. Winlock and Charity both jerked their heads to the lower floor – now with a significantly larger amount of people. That weren’t Gunners.

One of them donned in a red duster, death himself in a tricorn and roguish smile.

“Hancock?” Charity breathed, a painful amount of hope in her lungs – or maybe that was just regular pain. Hancock smiled up at her and she wanted to cry with the relief of it.

“Found ya, sunshine.”

The other three remaining Gunners were down so quickly Charity felt embarrassed for not finishing them off herself. The watch made quick work of them while Hancock sauntered through like he owned the place – well, technically, she supposed he did. He stopped, center stage as it were, and looked up at Winlock.

“It’s over, Winlock,” he growled, “Let her go and maybe we can negotiate your breathing privileges.”

Winlock’s wild eyes shifted from Hancock, to Charity, and to a figure in the back she couldn’t quite place. Her vision was blurring rapidly. “Like I’d fall for that,” he hissed, “Nah, I got a different barter in mind. You took my own, so how about-“

One of his hands was suddenly locked around Charity’s braid and tugging her up – she barely rested on her knees, with Winlock’s grip at the middle of her braid supporting the rest of her. He hung her up like a trophy, and maybe it was the blur of her eyes, but she swore she saw Hancock jerk. She might have been crying. She might have just been bleeding. Maybe she was dying.

They weren’t, though, and that’s what mattered.

“All this for one little bitch?” Winlock cackled, jerking her hair again, “C’mon, Hancock. You used to be hard. You used to be rough. We used to respect you. Now look at you – what’s she matter, huh?” Another jerk and she yelped. “You got too damn comfortable, is that it?”

“Winlock…” Hancock said lowly, “Let her go. Just let the girl go.”

“Nah, I don’t think so. I think I’ll take her with me. And I think you won’t do anything to me the entire time. Because with one flick of this?” And out came his knife, poised across her neck, “I can make your entire damn point moot. So, here’s what’s gonna happen.” He’d started edging, closer and closer to the stairs, “One of your guns aims at me, I slit her throat. You’re gonna let me walk.”

Hancock said nothing. Charity wanted to beg him to run, to plead it wasn’t worth it, to say _anything_ , but there was too much blood in her mouth to get out more than a gurgle. The watch slowly, shamefully, lowered their guns, the closer he came to the stairs. She had to do something. Something. Anything. God, why did they come back for her?

Another jerk jostled that familiar pressure in her back pocket. Something akin to fighting spirit – maybe not that, but something alive, burning – lit in her chest. Finn's knife.

Slowly, her shaking arms moved behind her. Every move was burning, agonizing, like breaking a bone and reforming it ten times over. But she felt it, retrieved it, shuffled it out of her pocket enough to glint it against the streaming light from the window. It didn’t take much from her wrist to aim it at Hancock. He squinted at first, but then blinked, trailing his gaze up through the grating and to the desperation in her eyes. Charity hoped he knew what she meant.

_Give me a chance, please._

He said something under his breath that she couldn't catch, but his lips formed around the word "Pick." With a flick of his wrist, that figure from the back shot out and suddenly a knife was flying by Winlock’s head close enough to take a lock of hair with it. Embedding itself into the wood, it brought a split second of his distraction – all that she needed. The blade momentarily lowered from her throat. Charity used the last of the strength in her arms to reach them up and in one jagged, torn motion, sheared the braid he held from her head.

Her body tumbled over the walkway. Gravity held her on the way down. When she didn’t hit the dirt she expected, though, she risked peeking open a swollen eye. Funny, that blur looked awfully red. Red with softened black eyes. Then she was practically crushed into a shoulder while dull, distant gunshots and another soft _thud_ echoed in the back. What was that? Could she even bother to look?

“Thank God,” a raspy voice whispered, “I got you, sunshine. I got you.”

* * *

 

“We need Amari in here,” Hancock ordered. The watchman nodded while he laid Charity’s body onto his bed – like hell he was using that cot again. The girl only moaned in pain. There was blood. A _lot_ of blood. God damn, Winlock had done a number on her.

Amari was in the room in seconds, frantically shooing Hancock to the side with a wave of her hands. In the back of his mind he respected her for that. She crouched by Charity, eyes wide, brows furrowed, jaw clenched. That was not a look he wanted to see on a doctor. That was not a look he wanted to be mirroring.

“C’mon, Doc,” he growled, only keeping neutral for the sake of her expertise, “We need speed here.”

“I’m not a professional because I’m _fast_ , Mayor Hancock,” she hissed, “How quick I am won’t affect her. We’re going to need Med-X – stimpacks won’t be enough. Bring every vial you can find. Also some hot water, some rags, and a lighter, if you have one.”

The lighter was the first thing he tossed to her while the other watchmen went to fetch the things. Grimly, he asked, “Am I gonna like what we need that for?”

“Depends on how you feel about cauterizing wounds.” Digging through her bag, Amari retrieved a few sterilized, glimmering tools, setting them almost gingerly on the side table. “Some of the gashes are too big to repair on their own. I don’t want to risk stitches, either – we don’t have time to disinfect the string. She’s going to have some nasty scars.”

“But you’re saying she’ll survive, right?” he prodded. “Amari. I need you to answer me, here. Look me in the eye.”

Amari didn’t turn for a while. She just worked her teeth harshly over her lower lip. When she did, it was tensely. “I’ve never lied to you, Mayor. I will do my best. But, medically, I can make no promises.”

And, damn, what could he say to that? Like she sensed he was speechless, she turned away from him and started peeling the bloodied clothing off Charity’s body. Hancock stiffened. The clothing was practically soaked, but the wounds on her abdomen confirmed his fear that it wasn’t just from Winlock. Not just gashes, but deep, already purpling bruises, angry, unrelenting along her skin. The rise and fall of her chest was shallow enough to make him forget how to breathe.

“I’m going to need you to step out,” Amari said calmly. A practiced kind of calm. “I need space to work.”

“…Yeah, Doc,” Hancock muttered, “I don’t think I can watch this anyways.”

He stepped out just as a watchman came inside with the other tools. The door closed behind him. He felt a strange urge to sink down against it.

Distantly, he felt his feet carry him to his office. Then, to his couch. Then, he hunched over, shoulders slumped, rubbing his fingers through the mottling of his skin like some insane ritual, like it would calm him down. He wanted to take a hit of Jet. He wanted to take fifty hits of Jet.

Two people. Two people he’d let down. One of them his _kid_ , his Fahrenheit, the little morsel of a child he’d promised to protect. She’d never feel cold again, he told himself. But she was lying in her room, he knew, probably shivering with her fever under the blankets.

And Charity. That ridiculously bright, happy ray of sunshine. Didn’t want to kill, she said, and he’d thought it was silly. Charming, but ultimately silly, but even with all the Mentats in the world he couldn’t predict how much kindness that fear hid underneath. Was she just the kind of person who sacrificed herself for people she barely knew? For people who barely knew _her_?

He didn’t know anything about her, he realized. Never prodded. Wasn’t his place – he was the mayor and she was just a pretty drifter who didn’t belong. Maybe if he’d been more insistent. Maybe if he’d _learned_ , he could have prevented this.

God damn. Winlock was right. He _was_ soft. He’d gotten two people close to him hurt because of it. The hell kind of a mayor did that?

If- no. Not if. _When_ Charity survived, he had a plan. A plan worming its way into his ragged little heart, but he felt it cement itself, and knew better than to try to pry it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *creaking* i'm...alive...  
> LMAO sorry this took so long again. I promise I'll be a little quicker now that I'm over the reaaaaally dramatic battles, so here's to hoping for updates that aren't eternities apart! I got a lot of really nice comments on my last chapter and I really, really appreciate that. You all make me feel wonderful and encouraged to write more, so it's great to hear your thoughts!
> 
> (Also to the first commenter who just wrote "lil Charity SNAPPED" you made my DAY)


	10. See You on the Other Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wisps of the storehouse incident still haunt everybody in Goodneighbor, but most of all Charity, and Hancock isn't okay with it. He comes to a few realizations along the way.
> 
> -Trigger warning for abuse, both parental and marital, and it gets pretty graphic in the marital department, so if you're sensitive to that I'd skip the parts in italics.-

“Her fever’s broken, but she needs to stay down for a while.”

“Heh, you tell _her_ that, doc, not me.”

“If she won’t listen to a father figure, why would she listen to me?”

“I don’t know – bat your eyes a little, play up that Amari charm – Irma won’t get too jealous, will she?”

The voices were foggy at best – the only reason Fahrenheit could distinguish was because of Hancock’s signature rasp. It would have helped if she opened her eyes, she realized – if only her lids didn’t feel heavy as bricks. Her lids, her limbs, and just about everything else. Whatever Amari had pumped into her certainly dulled the pain, and unfortunately took the rest of her muscles with it.

Hancock spoke up again. “She’s gonna be fine, though, right?”

“For the fifth time,” Amari replied, exhausted, “Yes, she will. It’s just basic rest and recuperation at this rate. I’m going to shoot _you_ with those painkillers if it will get you to stop nagging me.”

Hancock laughed at that. Maybe it was the drugs, but Fahrenheit thought something sounded off. “Gotcha, gotcha,” he said, “Okay. Give me some time with the kid, will ya?”

“Of course.” Amari’s steps echoed farther and farther away, and then Fahrenheit heard the door close. Next, there was a pressure next to her on the bed, and a warm hand on her own.

“Hey there, kid,” Hancock said lowly. Fahrenheit tried to open her eyes for him – still too heavy. So, she settled for a small mumble of a response.

“’Yer t’loud.”

With a chuckle, she felt her hand squeezed a bit tighter. “Hey, stealth ain’t my forte, we’ve known this. How you holdin’ up, Fahr?”

“Mm….feel like I lost a barfight to a deathclaw.”

“Hey, that ain’t too bad.” Hancock shifted. “Deathclaws are shit sports anyway. Never can hold their liquor as well as they say.”

“Hancock…” Fahrenheit started. It felt wrong, laying like this, so vulnerable and probably the cause of that lilt of concern in his voice. She tried to sit up, but her unresponsive limbs just laughed at the attempt and gave her a groan of protest for her troubles. All she could do was wince and halfway peel open her eyes. Hancock was looking over her, so much pain in his expression that she felt something break all over again.

He lightly patted her shoulder. “Take it easy, Fahr. You ain’t gotta push yourself.”

“How’s…how’s everyone?” she managed. “What happened?”

“It’s a long ass story, one you don’t need to be hearin’ in this state. But everyone’s alive, kid. You did good.”

“Bullshit.” She snorted. “All I did was get beat up.”

“When you’re better, I’m gonna smack you for those words, you know.” No heat behind his tone. “I know you held ‘em off for us. Get some rest.”

He stood. Fahrenheit watched that red duster make its way to the door, and just before he left, she managed to speak up again. “Charity?” she asked, “How’s Charity?”

“…Rest up, kid,” Hancock said. The door closed behind him.

* * *

 

When Hancock opened the door to Charity’s room, Pickman was already there at her bedside. The instinctive urge to smack him boiled inside his clenched fist, but Hancock pushed it down. He’d helped them. More specifically, he’d helped _her_.

“Brother, at least announce yourself or something. This creepin’ around shit is gonna get some lead through your skull eventually.” Closing the door behind them, Hancock walked closer, but Pickman didn’t turn. Just kept staring at Charity, one hand gently clasped around her open fingers.

Hancock leveled his stare at her too. The Med-X had taken care of the swelling, but her face was still grey and blue in patches, and Amari hadn’t been lying about the scars – her abdomen had a jagged, pink line running straight up the side, and while the gash on her collarbone was shorter, it was almost angrier, a harsh red against her skin. Luckily the other cuts had been minor enough that the medicine had erased them, but somehow her breathing was still shallow, and her brows seemed near constantly furrowed.

“I won’t be here much longer,” Pickman finally answered, “More for her sake than yours, mayor. I tend to attract unwanted attention, and it would bring this good town trouble if I remained.”

“Finally, we can agree,” Hancock muttered. After a moment of deliberation, he took a seat in the bedside chair, crossed a leg, and cleared his throat. Pickman turned with a raised brow. “Listen. I ain’t the kind to say this lightly. But you kept your word, and helped us when we needed it. Even if you had your own…reasons.” Like a switch, both of their gazes flicked to Charity, then back to each other, “If you wanna stay, I can’t in good conscience keep you out.”

“How kind of you,” Pickman said without much feeling. “That’s awfully gallant. Considering you’ve looked like you’ve wanted to throttle me since we met.”

“I ain’t denyin’ that. I’m just saying that I’m an honest man.”

“The “unlike you” was just as implied as you wanted, don’t worry,” he said, shaking his head. Pickman straightened. “No, thank you. I’ll be out before sundown. But, ah, this,” from his pocket he retrieved an envelope, slightly crumpled, and handed it over, “Is for her. When she wakes, and when she’s able to travel, give it to her.”

“…Will do,” he said. Hancock wouldn’t lie – that was the last damn thing he wanted to do. But Charity seemed to trust him, and he seemed to care. It wasn’t in his place to dispute that. Even if he really, _really_ wanted to.

Pickman released Charity’s fingers, stood from the bed, and walked to the door, but paused just before his hand hit the knob. “Mayor,” he said, “A question.”

“Shoot.”

“Before this, I ran into one of your citizens and attempted to get him to take the letter. He was the one who informed me about Charity. He seemed in some…distress, to put it lightly.” As if his confusion was that apparent, Pickman shrugged and further explained, “Vulgar fellow, but the point remains that he had more of a death wish than most. I’m not quite used to people _asking_ me to kill them.”

“Mind if I take a nap while you get to your point?”

“Is everybody in Goodneighbor impatient?” Pickman shot back. “Honestly. You lot have no appreciation for storytelling. Very well, let me be brief – seemed he knew our girl somewhat personally. If he hasn’t returned, he might still believe she’s dead. I would reconcile that if you don’t want him taking matters into his own hands.”

Hancock blinked, slowly, but Pickman was already out of the room. Bastard just had to be as vague as goddamn possible. Was that a prerequisite for being creepy? Don’t be frank under any circumstances?

“You attract the strangest lot, Jones,” he muttered to the girl beside him. Where Pickman’s hand had been before, he placed his own fingers. Something inside him warmed when she lightly curled her digits back. God damn, her touch had no right to be as gentle as it was, as _soft_ as it was, when the scars on her body were anything but. Her lips were parted slightly, dry and scraped, every so often tugging into a frown from whatever she was seeing behind her eyelids.

Like it would remedy the situation, Hancock tried to grin, but it fell just short of a smirk. “Sick sense of déjà vu, huh, sunshine?” He lightly squeezed her hand. “God damn, it’s like I said – why you gotta be injured every time you’re in my house? If this keeps up, might just have to ban you from the town for your own damn safety.” A rough chuckle with little to no humor behind it. That smirk was failing. “Shit. Here I am, talking to someone who ain’t responsive like she knows a damn word I’m saying. If it turns out you can hear all this, I’m gonna be pissed.”

He wouldn’t be. If it was physically possible for Hancock to be angry at her after this, he might just have to check to see if his heart had gone missing along with his left toe and that chunk of ear a while back.

“…Fahrenheit’s doing better,” he continued for some reason. “Fever broke and all. Man, Amari’s gonna have her ass if she starts her usual shit. I might just let it happen. Ain’t never seen the doc smack someone before – you think I could charge for that? And people say I ain’t good at fundraising.” Something painful made Charity wince and the guilt cannonballed into his gut. He tightened his lips. “I’m probably gonna say this to ya five times over when you’re awake, but damn if you ain’t gonna hear it now – I’m sorry, sunshine. Real sorry. Sorry I made someone decent get wrapped up in this mess. But one thing I _ain’t_ gonna let you do is forget that, which is why you’re gonna wake up, okay? You’re gonna wake up and get so annoyed with my irradiated, sexy, overprotective ass apologizin’ to ya like it’s going outta style. You’ll get so annoyed with it that you’ll march right out of here and away to someplace that’ll treat you better. Better than here. Better than me.”

Becoming a ghoul meant losing parts of yourself. Hancock had learned that first and foremost. It usually meant physical, hence the earlier toes and ears reference. Cosmetic stuff. Added charm, he liked to say. But if there was one thing he’d never been aware of losing, it was the moisture in his eyes at seeing a sight like Charity, barely clinging to his hand, breaths raspy and hollow. He couldn’t even cry. Damn, he wasn’t allowed that, at least?

“Mama…” she mumbled. He jumped at the word, not expecting any sound at all, and blinked. “I’m…don’t…”

* * *

 

_She was in her living room. Her old one. Before Boston, before Nate – a small, barely decorated terracotta and stucco room with a worn couch, a table, and a few crosses on the wall. Mama was cooking in the kitchen and she smelled tendrils of refried beans. Dad was working with the horses outside. Ulysses was reading something at the kitchen counter, but she couldn’t see the cover._

_“Charity,” Mama called over the cooking pot, “Lunch is about ready. Go get your father.”_

_“Mama, can’t Ulysses do it?” Charity found herself pleading – she didn’t mean to say that. She tried to say something else, deny it, but her throat wouldn’t work. Regardless, Mama turned to her with a raised brow. Further explaining herself, Charity said, “My back’s still hurtin’, Mama, from when I fell off Liberty. The heat makes it worse.”_

_Mama’s frown was stern, deep, ragged, like valleys in the Grand Canyon. She fixed her beady glare to Charity. “I didn’t make y’ fall off that horse, child. You ain’t needin’ t’ be ridin’ those anyhow. That’s Ulysses an’ your father’s work.”_

_“Ulysses is too young t’ work the horses right, Mama. I was just helpin’.”_

_“An’ look where it got ya. Now go on, get your father.”_

_She wanted to protest. Wanted to straighten and ask Mama just who she thought she was talking to. But all Charity could do was shrink, lower her head, and mumble, “Yes, Mama.”_

_Ulysses met her stare as she made her way outside. His round blue eyes were so wise beyond their eleven years, so full of worry, of guilt. Charity knew why he didn’t just get up to help her. Mama wouldn’t let him. This wasn’t about falling off the horse, not really. This was just about her._

_The second she was out from the shade of the front porch and the heat was scowling at her back, Charity held in a sob, clenching her eyes against the sudden ache in her spine. It felt angry, twisted. The doctor said she was lucky she hadn’t sprained anything. This sure didn’t feel like luck._

_“Dad?” she called to her father’s distant figure, rippled by the heat’s mirage, “Lunch is ready!”_

_The figure turned. The sun was too blinding for her to see him properly. All she could make out was his tall, dark figure, appraising her, and then turning back to the horses. Her back hurt so bad. She had to go back inside._

_By the time she was back in the cool air of the living room, Mama was setting a stack of plates on the counter. “Set the table, Charity,” she ordered. Charity tightened her lips._

_“Yes, Mama.”_

_She took one plate. The pain in her back shook her arms. It was barely to the table before a sudden jerk made her yelp, and then the plate was in pieces on the ground while she collapsed with it. God, her back hurt. It hurt so, so bad. Ulysses was beside her, small, nervous hands on her shoulder, while Mama stomped over with wide eyes and parted lips._

_“Mama,” Ulysses said beside her, “Don’t be mad at her, Mama, her back just hurt. She didn’t mean t’ drop the plate.”_

_“…” Mama stared at the both of them. She looked like she had an entire war fighting behind her eyes. Charity saw her fingers clench. “Fine. Ulysses, y’ set the table.”_

_That night, when Charity was getting ready for bed, she rummaged for the pills the doctor had prescribed in her drawers. The bottle was there, but everything inside was missing. Pleadingly, her back pulsed with pain. She knew it wasn’t any use looking for them._

_She laid in her bed, then, knowing sleep would never come._

* * *

 

There were tears streaming across her temples. That cannonball of guilt in Hancock’s stomach was now a full blown anchor, tugging and tugging until he worried his gut would tear right out his abdomen. “Hey, hey,” he tried to soothe, his hands suddenly smoothing down her hair of his own accord, “C’mon, Jones. Stay with me now. Let’s not get emotional here.”

“Mama…” Charity said again, “Sorry, Mama…”

She stopped crying, but the frown never left. Hancock must have been staring harder than he thought, because Amari’s voice piping behind him made him jump again.

“Mayor?” she started, “She needs some privacy right now. I also need to keep up the injections.”

He said nothing for a little bit. Just leaned over, wiped the last tear out her eye, and stood, fixing the slight crook of his tricorn. “Gotcha, doc. Let me know if anything changes, yeah?”

“Of course,” she said, one brow raised. “You can come visit the same time tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“Sure, sure,” he waved his hand. Hancock walked out of the room, sauntered past the watch and their worried, narrowed eyes, and down the spiral of his staircase, straight to the front door.

* * *

 

THREE DAYS LATER

“How are we feeling, Fahrenheit?” Amari said, flicking the vial on the stimpack. “Appetite fine?”

“Can’t work one up if I can’t move,” Fahrenheit growled, without much heat. She shifted against the headboard of the bed. “I’m fine, Amari. Goddamn, can’t I at least go for a walk?”

“Oh, sure,” the doctor responded, “I’ll be happy to treat your ankle when it goes out afterwards, too. As well as your knee, possibly your hip, and if we’re lucky, your shin.”

“If we’re _lucky_?”

“Your temper gives me more clients than I know how to deal with. This is practically a vacation for me.” Fahrenheit opened her mouth to retort, but just after the stimpack needle was stuck into the crook of her elbow. She jerked.

“Hey!”

“Stop moving, or I’ll tear the vein.”

She complied reluctantly. Amari finished injecting, gently removed the needle, and tossed it into a box for disposal. Fahrenheit watched her slender fingers work with barely more than muscle memory as she made a few notes in her ledger, then looked back up.

“I would venture,” Amari started again, “That you should be clear for walking in a few days.”

“And that translates to, ‘move from this bed and I’ll un-heal you myself,’ right?” Fahrenheit tilted her chin at Amari, rose a brow, to which the doctor only chuckled. After a shrug, Amari put the rest of her things in her bag.

“Believe what you’d like, Fahrenheit. I’ll be back later tonight.”

“Right, right,” Fahr waved her hand, “I’m sure Charity doesn’t complain this much. She’s probably a model patient.”

“…Right,” Amari said, way too slowly. Fahr cocked a brow.

“Amari?”

“Anyways, like I said, back tonight,” the doc made for the door but Fahrenheit snatched her wrist first. She held tight. Amari didn’t even struggle, just sighed, hanging her head with a muttered “damn”.

“Don’t bullshit me, doc,” Fahr warned, “You and Hancock both clam up every time I’ve mentioned her. Don’t give me some line about “not good for my health” – I can take it. Is she…” she gulped, “Is she de-“

“No, no,” the doctor said immediately. When she was sure she wouldn’t run off, Fahrenheit released her wrist and leaned back. “No, it’s, not that. She’s alive. Physically, she’s fairly healed, albeit with quite a few scars.”

“So, what?” she said, “What’s the issue?”

“The issue is that, well…” Amari tilted her head, “She…won’t wake up. Unresponsive. It isn’t just regular sleeping – more of a trance. In all honesty, I’m not sure what to make of it.”

“…I see.” Fahrenheit wasn’t sure what the stirring in her chest was, but something told her not to overthink it. “Well, hell, that wasn’t so hard, was it? You can go now, jeez.”

“Right.” Amari stood a bit too quickly. “Remember your medicine.”

“Yeah,” Fahr replied, but she wasn’t looking at the doctor anymore. She cast her gaze out her window, where she saw some man with a ponytail she didn’t know walking out the gate. “I got it.”

“Daisy, my gal,” Hancock greeted, hands on the counter, “How’s it?”

“Looks like your girl up there took care of the hard parts, so none of our boys were hurt,” Daisy replied. She wiped a small stain off the counter and dusted her hands of it, then started writing some inventory in a chart. Most people would take that as a cue to step off. Hancock was not most people.

“Hey, that’s some good news if we ever needed any.” Easily, he leaned against the wall and folded his arms. “You get anyone to take care of those supermutants yet?”

“Please, not all of us are suicidal.” One flick of her dark eyes to the upper window where Charity laid behind told Hancock all he needed to know. He just shrugged, held up his hands, and grinned. “You know I mean nothin’ by it, mayor. I’m thinking of paying MacCready when he gets back from that job.”

“Yeah, the kid would do pretty well with that, I reckon,” he mused, “Damn, he sure knows how to time shit. The one time he leaves and Goodneighbor springs into action.”

“Somehow, I don’t think he’ll be that upset. Maybe that he missed out on the caps.” With a laugh, Daisy finished her inventory and closed the cabinets, then set on arranging a few more items on her shelf. She let a comfortable silence stretch between them. After a little while, she spoke up again, making Hancock peek one lazy eye open. “Talk to me, John. I know there’s something on your mind.” She paused. “It’s Jones, ain’t it?”

“Damn, no wonder you love books – all you do is read shit people keep covered.” Even as he spoke, Hancock was smirking, even if the corners of his mouth failed a bit at the edges. “Am I that obvious?”

“Maybe you wouldn’t be if you’d stop staring at that window.”

“Point taken.” He laughed lightly. “Yeah, okay. Shit, it’s my fault she’s like that, a man can’t feel guilty?”

“Sure he can. You’re taking “guilt” a little far though, John.” Daisy stood then, abandoning her useless arranging and faced him directly, mirroring his pose. She folded her arms and cocked a brow. “This isn’t guilt. You’re worried because you just care about her. As a person.”

“Well, sure I do.” Hancock scoffed. “I care ‘bout everybody here. Kinda the point of bein’ mayor.”

“Oh, please, Hancock,” she snorted and smacked him upside the tricorn, “You’re gonna try to fool a gal centuries your senior? That ain’t how you look at any old drifter.”

“How do you know how I look at drifters?”

“I got eyes, mayor. I know a lot more than you give me credit for.” Daisy huffed. “You’re all caught up because you went and got yourself a crush, and now you’re moping because you ain’t got an idea with how to deal with it.” She put her hands on her hips and Hancock suddenly looked like he wanted to be somewhere else. “Go on, then. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“C’mon, Daisy,” Hancock started, chuckling, “I ain’t some pining little Diamond City brat. You’re reading into things.”

“Sure, sure, and you’re a celibate,” she shot back. “When you’ve decided you’re honest with yourself, give me a call. I never pass on a chance to say I told you so.”

“When she wakes up, Jones ain’t gonna like that, y’know,” he teased, something else hidden in his tone, “Don’t go makin’ her think a ghoul’s trying to homewreck her and her husband.”

“Oh, perish the thought,” Daisy laughed. “I’ll let you do that with your pining and mooning.”

“I swear,” he grinned, “You just don’t quit.”

“Tell the kid to wake up soon, so I can give her a discount, will ya?” Daisy said as he began to retreat. Hancock waved the back of his hand.

“I’m tellin’ ya, Daisy, she’ll be out here in no time.”

* * *

 

TWO DAYS LATER

She still hadn’t woken up.

Amari stood pensively beside him while Hancock stared over Charity’s paling body, where a thin sheen of sweat had begun glistening over her skin. Her now shortened hair was plastered against her forehead. Her brows still furrowed. Her eyes still shut.

“I need some answers, doc,” he growled. Some small part of him shriveled in guilt when Amari jumped at that, but apologies were for later. “Why ain’t she up?”

“…To be honest, I don’t see cases like this often.” Amari straightened the collar under her coat. “Physically, she’s fine. Even Fahrenheit regained consciousness days ago. The cause of this, like I thought, isn’t just cosmetic, or even internal. I…I thought it was just the shock wearing off at first, but to go on this long…” She chewed slightly at the nail of her thumb, eyes narrowed, “Let me try something.”

She sat on the bedside. One of her fingers gently took Charity’s wrist and pinched the skin, and after a little bit Charity jerked. She released immediately. Hancock stayed silenced until the doctor looked back up at him.

“Well?”

“It’s as I thought. She’s responding to external stimuli, which proves this isn’t a result of her injury. The body hasn’t shut down her nerves. No, whatever’s keeping her under, it’s…entirely mental. I would guess that she encountered something extremely traumatic at the storehouse.” Amari gulped. “It sometimes happens with patients at the memory den – in extremely painful memories, their brains have ways of essentially locking them in as a defense mechanism. I usually can use the link to drag them out, though.”

Hancock cursed. “Christ,” he said, “Jones, just what did you see?”

Amari was silent beside him. Hancock couldn’t blame her, in all honesty – this wasn’t the kind of shit that was easy to talk over. Practically a week, unresponsive. People often assumed he wasn’t a praying man, and maybe he lived up to expectations, but that past week had seen a few more than friendly conversations between him and whatever God was listening.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to say it. The thought that was being spread between them. Amari definitely didn’t. She just kept her jaw locked tight, like the offending words couldn’t escape if she clenched hard enough. Hancock admired her methods. Probably was mirroring them himself.

After a few more beats of silence, he idly cast his gaze out the window, towards the Memory Den and the watchmen guarding it. He stared, something nagging him in the back of his mind. It felt like something was missing. Like an equation he couldn’t solve in school. After glaring a pretty mean hole through the glass trying to chase that something, it suddenly sparked at him, and had him grabbing Amari’s shoulder with a grip tighter than he meant.

“What if we use the loungers?” he blurted. Amari blinked. “You said you can use that link to get ‘em out, right? Get inside her head of whatever this is, and snap her out of it.”

“I…yes, oh, that could work,” she murmured, “It would be risky, but yes, there’s definitely a shot – we’ll have to be quick.”

A few directions, scrambling watchmen and worried glances later and they were inside the Den, Hancock shifting Charity in his arms as gently as he could, but she still moaned with the movement. She was too light in his grip. Way too light. The scent of _sick_ was all over her and even without the heightened senses of a ghoul, he knew it was more than apparent. Too much. All of it too much.

“Lay her down here,” Amari said, motioning to a lounger. Hancock softly set her in, arranged her legs so they weren’t hanging out. Beside the lounger was a series of computers, various lights and buttons that apparently Amari knew how to work just fine, because she was pressing and dialing at the speed of light. The glass dome closed over Charity. A screen was hooked next to Amari’s workspace, loaded with the ever docile “Please Stand By”.

But before Amari began, she paused, and fixed Hancock with the most nervous stare of the day. “I need to warn you, mayor. Whatever is holding her back is strong enough – no, _traumatic_ enough to keep her from taking over. It probably is not going to be very easy to watch.”

“This is me we’re talkin’ about, doc,” Hancock assured, his smirk more for her sake than his, “Now let’s save ourselves a vaultie.”

* * *

 

_Now she was in Boston. She knew this house, but it wasn’t their house, not really. It hadn’t been their house for a very long time._

_Looking down revealed a lump on her stomach. No, not a lump – Shaun. Larger. Not full, yet, but as her palm felt around the edges there was the slightest pressure of a kick. She wanted to cry. Wanted to hold that lump in her stomach and never let go._

_But now it was hurting, a dull, familiar ache that made her wince again. Her hand, moving once again without her will, nearly reached for the pills waiting, taunting on the kitchen counter. Then it stopped. Curled in on itself like moonlight weeds that furled their leaves at a threat. Charity remembered this, at least._

_Then, the door was opening, and she was turning to see Nate, shoulders hunched and worn. He wasn’t wearing his military fatigues. No, he wouldn’t be – he and Thomas were just out drinking, she remembered. He’d told her that’s where they’d be. She had no reason to worry, otherwise._

_He stopped. Saw her. Saw the pills. His eyes were unreadable. “Did you take the medicine?”_

_“I…” oh, she knew that fear. That fear didn’t need a reminder. “Yes. I did.”_

_Outside, it was raining. She saw droplets leak off the ends of his hair. “Really?”_

_“Of course, darlin’.”_

_“…” Nate stalked closer. “Stalked” was really the only term she could use, because people didn’t normally move like that – didn’t normally shuffle slowly enough to make every step look deliberate, like an effort, like a chore. Autonomous, unfeeling. Something was missing from him._

_Who was she kidding?_

_Something had been missing for longer than she knew._

_“I-I did, honey, honest,” Charity offered, and before she knew it she was back against the counter. Somewhere along the way the pill bottle rattled across it. “Nate, what are you-“_

_His hand latched around her neck and suddenly his fingers were too tight, too much, too firm on her jugular and she was fighting for air. Her nails were too dull to scratch him but she tried, tried hard, leaving at most red welts down his forearm. When she looked into his face to plead she couldn’t, because there was nothing there. Nothing in his eyes was human anymore. Were they ever?_

_“Never fucking listen to me,” he hissed, “I was just trying to help you, Cherry. All I wanted to do and you fucking spat at me. You see what you’ve done? You see what you’ve done now?”_

_“N-Nate-“_

_“I tried to help, I tried, I tried,” he was mumbling, and repeating until his other searching hand found the pill bottle. The lid wouldn’t come off with just his fingers, but instead of releasing her he smacked it against the counter hard enough to send the plastic shattering. Charity yelped at the crack. What little air she was allowed was coming in pants now, frantic, panicked, growing more so as he gruffly gathered every pill he could into his palm. “You’re gonna be better now, Cherry, gonna make you better, gonna do it right, come on now-“_

_Finally he released her and Charity coughed along with her sobs, heaving and holding her throat as she fell to the floor. But that wasn’t the end of it. Because Nate was yanking her up again by her hair, and just as her mouth fell open in shock he shoved the pills inside. His palm on the front of her mouth kept them there._

_“Shh, shh,” he kept whispering. “Make you better, it’s okay now-“_

_She wouldn’t swallow, no matter how hard he forced them in, no matter how he pushed and jerked and pulled her until they were spilling out of her mouth and she was choking, crying, and then finally Nate grew frustrated enough to abandon it all and push her away. She hit the counter, coughed out a final pill and collapsed, sobbing. The memory of this, the feeling – Charity didn’t want to relive it. But she knew what came next. Nate would stomp into their bedroom and shut the door, and she’d sleep on the couch, and they’d never mention it again._

_But Nate wasn’t leaving._

_The feeling of the pills in her throat had dulled, but the fear was still there, which was why it was so hard to look up at him in question- then she was shrieking because he had no face, nothing, just empty skin and little else. He hovered over her emptily._

_“You aren’t much better than me, Charity,” he whispered, but it wasn’t his voice, not anymore. It wasn’t even his face – the skin morphed grotesquely, warping and shifting until she was staring back at Bobbi, who leered at her wide, terrified eyes, “At least Nate never slit anyone’s throat. Can’t say the same for you, monster.”_

_“I’m not, I’m not-“ she pleaded, breath short, hands braced against the counter. Bobbi’s face was changing again, wrinkles undoing and smoothing until they formed the shocked, frightened face of the young Gunner from the storehouse, fresh with a red wound between his eyes._

_“You’re not? Not what?” he taunted. “You deserve it. All of it. Acting like the victim – who can you fool?”_

_“I’m…not…” she tried again, voice small. Charity whimpered. “Not a monster…I can’t be.”_

* * *

 

He was going to be sick. Both Hancock and Amari watched the screen, open-mouthed, Amari looking paler and greener than him by a mile. Fighting against every pang of unease, guilt, and some hellish cocktail of remorse and sorrow in his gut, Hancock clapped a hand on her shoulder, effectively shocking the doctor from the events on the screen.

“How do we stop this?” he asked. Amari took a breath to collect herself and grabbed what looked to be a small microphone, attached to the computer.

“This projects a voice into the consciousness. I’ve…I’ve never done it with someone who isn’t aware, so I’m not sure exactly how she’s going to respond to the stimuli. It would…” after working her response over a bit, she looked up, “If you are comfortable, mayor, it would help if she hears somebody familiar. That way, the presence is easier for the brain to accept.”

“I’ve had a strange relationship with “comfortable” recently,” Hancock muttered, “Let’s make it stranger. Give it over.” She handed it, he took it, and then somewhat awkwardly looked back at her. “So, uh…how do I do this?”

“I’m going to activate it, give you the signal, and then…well, just start talking to her, I suppose. Make her aware this isn’t real, first.”

“Right. Okay. I’ve been in gal’s dreams before. This ain’t any different.” Amari was glaring at his attempt to lighten the mood, so he cleared his throat and gave her the okay. She paused, flip a switch, and gave him a thumbs up.

* * *

 

_Now, Nate’s face had shifted again. Decorated with facepaint and scarred, heavily. Leering at her. “Five raiders, you shot down. Five people dead because of you.”_

_“I had to!” she shrieked, “They would’ve killed those people! I had t’ kill them!”_

_“You keep saying that, Charity, like you’re gonna make it true,” the face purred back, “You know what you are. You’ve always known.”_

_“Not…I’m not…” Charity hiccuped through a sob, “Please…”_

_“Charity? Can you hear me?”_

_A different voice. Too raspy, too warm, too familiar. Scared the face would taunt her again, Charity kept her own face buried in her hands and shook her head. She hiccuped again._

_“Go away,” she pleaded, “Didn’t do anythin’ wrong. Go away. Please. Leave me alone.”_

_“Charity, hey, c’mon now,” the voice urged. She shook her head again. It sighed. “Okay, okay. You don’t gotta look up, Jones. Hear me out, at least.”_

_What choice did she have?_

_“None of this,” the voice continued, “is real. You ain’t deservin’ of this, and you sure as hell ain’t a monster. It’s in your head. We’re gonna need you to get out of it.”_

_Her hiccups had stopped, but the paralyzing notion of those different faces stilled her from raising her head. Charity sniffed, eyes searching the darkness in her hands. “…Hancock?” she tried, cautiously, “Is…that you?”_

_“Yeah, it is,” he said, and there was relief in it, the same relief she saw in the storehouse when they found her again. “It is me. Don’t, uh, ask how I’m here. Point is, we’re gonna get you out of this, okay?”_

_“Hancock, I’m- I’m scared,” she whimpered, “I ain’t- I don’t know if there’s a way out. I did this t’ myself. If I’d just been faster, or if I hadn’t sh- hadn’t shot those people…” God, another sob, burrowing into her throat and she shook with the force of it, “I killed ‘em, I said I wouldn’t an’ I killed ‘em, an’ they coulda been somebody’s baby, somebody’s brother, an’ now they ain’t an’ it’s ‘cause of me!”_

_“No, it’s not.” Hancock’s firmness was jolting. “They put themselves in that situation. Pull a rubber band back and it snaps – you gonna blame the band, Jones? Nah. You blame the bastard yanking it around.”_

_She sniffed. Her sobs had stopped again. Charity slowly, agonizingly, peeled her hands away from her face, turned her tear-stricken cheeks to the living room. Nate was gone. Nobody was left. Still, Hancock spoke to her._

_“Come on outta there, Charity,” he whispered. It sounded like a plea. “We’re waiting for ya.”_

_Easing up, Charity looked to the living room. The television was on. Not playing anything, just a basic screen, gentle “Please Stand By” flickering back at her. Something about it was comforting. Inviting. She reached out her finger._

_“See you on the other side, sunshine.”_

* * *

 

The lid to the lounger flipped up just as Charity gasped, eyes wide, hands grasping the side for an anchor. She was panting. Amari was in front of her in an instant, hands on her shoulders, then her cheeks, forcing the girl to look her in the eye.

“You’re back here, Charity. Take deep breaths. In, out, there we go,” as Charity started mimicking her, she slowly calmed, the color came back in her face, her eyes going less wild. It was a good minute before her breaths were even again. “Are you better?” Amari asked. Charity nodded, albeit slowly.

When she finally spoke, her voice was raspy from lack of use. “…Hancock?”

“Right here, Jones,” he said, stepping from behind the monitor. Something broke in his heart at the simultaneous pain and relief in her eyes. Something so pure, so yearning, he couldn’t call himself even _formerly_ human and not sweep her into a hug right then and there. She smelled like medicine and bandages and so _Charity_ that he just buried his face deeper into the crook of her neck, fingers tickling her choppy locks. Charity, stiff at first, gradually relaxed into it. Then she hugged him back, firm as she could. He felt her sniff. Her shoulders were shaking.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you-“

“You ain’t gonna say “thank you” till you’re back on your feet, you hear me?” he laughed into her ear, and was almost ashamed at how panicked it sounded. “Till you’re walking around and annoying me every damn day in the state house. That’s when you can say “thank you” again.” He pulled back, just enough to look her in the eye. “Deal?”

“…Deal.” She smiled at him. A slow, small thing at first, but then it widened, brightly, genuinely, dimpling the edges of her cheeks and crinkling the corners of her eyes. For some reason, Hancock couldn’t quite move at that – he was locked in the way that gunmetal grey bled into blue, equal parts strong and soft and fluid, and was flabbergasted at how he’d never considered that before. He could look at eyes like that for a damn long while, he realized.

_“I got eyes, mayor. I know a lot more than you give me credit for.” Daisy huffed. “You’re all caught up because you went and got yourself a crush, and now you’re moping because you ain’t got an idea with how to deal with it.” She put her hands on her hips and Hancock suddenly looked like he wanted to be somewhere else. “Go on, then. Tell me I’m wrong.”_

_Well, damn, Daisy_ , he thought to himself, stroking her cheek without much thought to it, _You might be onto something._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I'd space out writing this with my other fic, but I just felt so inspired after all the extremely sweet comments y'all gave me that I had to write another!! I promise I do still remember how to write happy stuff I SWEAR I just need to get over this angst hill okay  
> And at first you know, I was kinda worried that I was writing him as too sappy, but a few looks back in his canon dialogue files and like...y'all, this boy is such a SAP when you romance him oh my god 
> 
> Also Hancock: I don't have a thing  
> *Charity nearly dies for goodneighbor, cuts her hair, passes out and gets shot*  
> Hancock:...okay but like it's a SMALL thing


	11. Getting into Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hancock's come to his realizations, but Charity is just starting to discover hers. Both of them have a small discussion about what the other knows.  
> -For once, no trigger warnings, yay!-

How much had he seen?

It haunted her, the way she couldn’t read his face like she used to, the veritable _wall_ he’d built around his expressions the day after she woke up. He hadn’t avoided her, not really. No, in fact he’d redefined hovering, nearly assigning one of the watch on guard duty for her until she’d practically _begged_ him to take it easy. The thought of all that commotion was mortifying. The only reason she hadn’t whacked him for it was because she saw the shake in his hands before he shoved them to his pockets.

In her dreams, the following days after, she revisited that scene again. Or, specifically – _it_ revisited _her_. Charity would be lying if she said she had a choice in the matter. It was always Nate, first, and then the faces after Nate; Bobbi, the Gunner, the Raiders. One after the other, jeering, uncaring. Sometimes she woke up screaming. Sometimes she woke up silently, but the tears were still there. Increasingly she was starting to fear waking up at all.

Nagging in the back of her mind was Hancock’s voice still, guiding her out. Amari had…tried, to explain what happened to her when the fuss died down – memory loungers, Hancock speaking, microphones, the lot of it. What that meant to Charity, however, was that Hancock had a front row seat to something she’d been desperately locking down since she came here.

To say she felt conflicted was an understatement.

“Mornin’, doll,” one of the watch greeted her, “Got business at the state house?” He jerked his head at the building behind him, to which Charity grinned, nodding.

“That I do. Just somethin’ t’ talk over, is all. Is Hancock…”

“Well, he’s in, but probably sleepin’ it off,” he muttered. Charity tilted her head.

“Sleeping what off?”

“Oh, some caravaners came through last night, got real _busy_ , if you, ah, catch my drift,” his brows waggled before he was elbowed harshly by the other watchman, who hissed a warning.

“C’mon, don’t say that in front of the vaultie!”

“What? Oh, shit, you’re right – sorry, uh, forget I said anything,” he hastily added. Charity blinked, then set a hand on her hip.

“Gentlemen, I ain’t some desert flower, y’know. I’m not gonna wilt because some folk are enjoyin’ themselves.” The thought of _Hancock_ also “enjoying” himself sent a strange twist in her gut, one that made her frown deeper, but otherwise she ignored it. There wasn’t time for that. “If he’s sleepin’, I ain’t gonna bother. Could y’ tell him I stopped by?”

“Nah, just come on in,” came a voice from up top. The watchmen and Charity jerked their heads to Fahrenheit, leaning over the balcony with a smirk. “He needs to get his lazy ass out of bed anyways. How’s it going, Jones?”

“Fahrenheit!” Charity exclaimed, grinning wide, “I’m doin’ just fine – an’ you?”

“Eh. Been better. Nothing some whiskey won’t fix. You better have a drink with me sometime soon, because nobody else here can hold their goddamn liquor.”

Charity laughed, covering her grin, and ran a hand through her hair. It still shocked her every time her touch stopped at the ends. “I’ll be right up, then.”

* * *

 

Fahrenheit was waiting when Charity ascended the staircase, one brow raised. If anything, Charity would have deigned to call her _cooler_ – a few new scars now decorated her jaw and neck, as well as her right eyebrow. She stood like nobody could touch her. Charity also noticed her slightly more casual look – a plain white tank top and fatigue pants. Apparently not fully on duty.

“You look great,” she said, genuinely. Fahrenheit snorted through the flattery.

“You look like you pissed off a barber.” Her eyes landed on the choppy locks around her jaw. “Guessing that’s also fallout from the storehouse.”

“Oh…” Charity chuckled sheepishly and felt her fingers through the strands, shrugging. “S’pose it ain’t the most fashionable ‘do in the Commonwealth, but I ain’t got much choice now. I’m afraid if I try t’ even it out, I’ll just make it worse.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Fahrenheit paused, then pursed her lips. “You want me to cut it?”

“I- wait, what?” Charity gaped and Fahrenheit rolled her eyes, but she wouldn’t let that deter her shock. “Y’ can cut hair, Fahr? Since when?”

“Look at my hair, Charity. You think I’m letting anybody near my neck with something sharp? Or worse, _Hancock_?”

“That…makes sense.” She blinked. “Well, if you’re offerin’, then I ain’t gonna refuse. I can pay ya, if it’s alright.”

“God, don’t. I’m not charging Goodneighbor’s angel money for a haircut.” Her words were harsh but Charity knew the signature softness in her eyes as Fahrenheit ushered her over to the main room, and sat her down in a couch across from the balcony. Somewhat awkwardly, Charity adjusted herself into the cushions, trying to sit around the dull ache in her legs and every other various muscle pain in her body. Amari had warned her that the drugs couldn’t handle microtears, not without heavier medicine, anyway. And _that_ was out of the question for obvious reasons.

Fahrenheit returned with a rusted pair of scissors. Charity’s apprehension was palpable enough to make the redhead snort again and lightly bump her temple. “You’re safer with me and a pair of scissors than you are in Covenant. Relax, vaultie.”

_Vaultie_. Fahrenheit didn’t know. That meant Hancock hadn’t told her what he saw. She didn’t have time to analyze the warmth in her chest, because Fahr’s surprisingly nimble fingers were adjusting her head straighter, and who was she to disobey the angel of death?

“I’m just gonna even it out to right at your chin, yeah?” she said behind her. Charity nodded. “Okay then. Here we go…”

Through the familiar clicks of hair cutting, Charity let herself relax a little more, easing her head into Fahrenheit’s bracing hand on the back of her neck. It was a strange, almost sisterly feeling. She also had a feeling that if she called Fahrenheit “sisterly” those scissors were going in a place they shouldn’t be.

“And…done.” Fahr said. Charity turned.

“That quick?”

“Jones, it was only a trim. Here, take a look.” She grabbed a mirror off one of the shelves and handed it over, pivoting it around Charity’s head for most of the angles. “You want it shorter, or…?”

“N-No, it’s…I like it.” She gulped. The locks met just at her chin, like Fahrenheit said, and curled, bouncing in a way she’d never quite seen them do. Then again, she’d never had short hair since she could remember. It was almost hypnotizing, the bounce and flick every time she so much as moved her head. Her exposed neck looked longer, slimmer without the braid behind it. Her own reflection looked foreign.

Beside her, Fahrenheit chuckled. “Getting narcissistic, are we, Charity?”

“No, that’s not it,” she laughed, “I mean, thanks, Fahrenheit. Y’ did a great job. Are y’ sure I can’t pay ya?”

“Pay me in drinks tonight at the Third Rail. Don’t show up and I’m dragging you out of the Rex myself, yeah?” Her grin was nearly predatory. “I’ll tell Charlie to bring out the good stuff.”

“Now, who am I t’ refuse that?” Charity said, mirroring her smile, “You’re on.”

“Good. Now go wake up the old man – he’s in his room. Uh…try not to stare?” And with that cryptic advice, Fahrenheit was trotting back down the stairs, leaving Charity to eye Hancock’s room across the hall with a little more apprehension than she’d had before.

Try not to stare at what?

“Everyone’s so vague,” she muttered, walking over. Charity held up her fingers. Rapped thrice on the wood. She heard shuffling inside, some mumbles- no, a _lot_ of mumbles. Her brows furrowed. Just how many people were in there?

_Why is there more than one person at all_ , she wanted to ask. But even she knew the answer to that.

Eventually, the knob turned and she straightened. A traitorous draft tickled her now very exposed neck, sending Charity flushing – what if her hair somehow looked worse? No, Fahrenheit could be trusted. She knew what she was doing. Charity, on the other hand, had her doubts about herself.

“I told y’all,” Hancock’s familiar rasp greeted as the door creaked open, “Let a brother sleep for- oh.”

Yeah, “oh” was about right, Charity reckoned. Her eyes widened. Hancock was leaning against the door frame, duster forgotten, hat tilted near jauntily and shirt undone so far it was clear buttons were just a suggestion. His chest, mottled and lean, stuttered with a small hitch of breath at his surprise. To her immense relief, pants had been equipped, but the undress of his shirt still revealed the V of his hips and okay Charity it was time to look at his face now.

Hancock blinked. Then, he grinned, slow and she’d dare to say _sultry_ , letting his head rest against the doorframe too. “Mornin’, sunshine,” he said, already raspy voice even more undone from sleep, “See somethin’ you like?”

It was cute how he thought her brain could work right now. One touch to her cheeks and- yep, they were on fire, her whole body was on fire, probably her bed was on fire back at the Rex. She tried to get something resembling words out, but it came out more as “I- no- you- shirt-“

His grin widened. From behind him, Charity heard another mumble, bedsprings squeaking. She tried to peer around him but his chest – oh, damn, his chest – blocked the way. She was going to faint all over again now. Sorry for your hard work, Amari. It was being undone at the sight of Hancock’s smug little smile and the way he sauntered off that doorframe, stepped a bit closer, and tapped lightly at her temple.

“All the lights on in there, sister?” he asked lowly. “I know I’m a sight, but I don’t usually turn gals braindead with my clothes _on_.”

That snapped her out of it. Charity stiffened and jerked her head to the side, reveling in the much less appealing peeled bannister. “Y’ just caught me off guard, was all,” she defended, “Sorry, mayor, I didn’t- they didn’t tell me y’ were, ah…occupied.”

Hancock laughed at that. Not loudly, just a low little chuckle that sent shocks through her spine. “Occupied. That’s cute. Sure, let’s call it that.” It might have been just her, might have been the shock of seeing…well, all of that, but there was something different in his tone and she was fairly sure it wasn’t just sleep. “Don’t worry about it, Charity. If it’s you, I’ve got time.”

That softness in his voice. It was tempting enough to make her look back at him, and when she did, he wasn’t smiling anymore – not frowning, either. Just…looking, really. Like he was trying to figure something out. She felt the sudden urge to duck her head.

“I… thanks, uh, mayor. Hancock. Mayor Hancock.”

“Ooh, that’s a new one.”

“C’mon, give me a break,” she snorted, rolling her eyes. “Still, I’m sorry for wakin’ ya. I just…wanted t’ talk about, well. You know.” Charity lowered her voice. “The Memory Den.”

“Oh.” He blinked, and suddenly the sleep evaporated from his shoulders, and he was buttoning his shirt. “Oh, shit, right. Yeah. We should- we should talk about that.” No, he wasn’t… flustered, was he? What in the world for? Charity watched as he finished the last button where he usually stopped, but then he…kept going. All the way to the top. She’d been unsure that his shirt even _had_ a top button.

“Lemme just, uh, usher these kind folk out, yeah?” he offered, “I’ll met you in the office.”

“…Right,” she said, already backing away. “I’ll just… be in there, then.”

* * *

 

She sat herself where she’d sat when Fahrenheit cut her hair, and found herself nervously tugging at the strands in what she knew was going to be one bad habit. Her cheeks still hadn’t cooled. That was just…more than unexpected, really – Charity was more shocked at _her_ reaction than the sight. What was that about – she’d just seen a little more chest than usual, what’s the big deal?

They just hadn’t talked in a while, was all. She was just nervous.

“Alright, now that that’s settled,” Hancock called, closing the doors behind them. He sat across from her, crossing one leg over the other. His duster was back on, and he’d seemed to realize where his shirt usually sat unbuttoned. “Apologies for that eyeful. Though, uh…don’t seem you minded too much.” There was that grin again, but more alert this time, sharper. She was right. Something _was_ different about him.

Now a little more prepared, Charity just rolled her eyes again, waving her hand to hide the extra heat back on her ears, “You’re a very handsome man, but I ain’t so lecherous as t’ leer like you’re thinkin’. Like I said, y’ just caught me by surprise.”

“I’m handsome now, am I?” he laughed, “Ain’t somethin’ I was expecting from a smoothskin, but hey, no complaints here. You already know I don’t think you’re too bad yourself. Especially with the new cut.” She couldn’t see his pupils, naturally, but felt his gaze flick over her head. “Suits you, in my opinion.”

“You think?” she said softly, then smiled. “Fahrenheit evened it out. She’s much better with scissors than I thought.”

“Yeah, consider yourself lucky. Last person to ask her for a haircut got more than their ends snipped.” He shuddered and sighed. “Oh, hey, by the way – little present for ya. Hold on.” Hancock was up again and rifling through his desk, from which he retrieved a letter, promptly tossed to her. She caught it. Charity turned it over in her fingers, then broke the red string that served as a seal around it.

_Hello, Killer,_

_Some friends of ours are visiting soon, near Nahant. I’d love if you could join us. Bring hubflowers._

_Your friend,_

_R.P._

Her grin spread. He’d taken her advice, after all. However, re-reading “Nahant” made her frown lightly – he wanted that far north? What did he think her legs were made of, iron?

“Enlighten a brother?” Hancock piped from the couch, where he’d sat down again. Charity set the letter down with a huff.

“Pickman,” she said, raising a brow at his sudden stiffness, “S’pose I never told ya I work for him, did I?”

“…Because it’s _you_ , I know it don’t involve anything shady, but…” He tightened his lips, “What’s he got you doing?”

“Guard work, mostly. Keepin’ folks out who don’t need t’ be there, makin’ sure nobody else gets hurt.” Charity shrugged.

He processed this with no small amount of distaste, but for her sake, she guessed, he forced it behind an uneasy smile. Hancock scratched his jaw lightly with a finger, sighing. “Well, damn. This mean you’re taking off on us, Jones?”

“I…yeah.” Her tone was more somber than she’d meant, but Charity tried pepping it up, to little success. “I mean, it ain’t like I’m never gonna visit! I just need somethin’ steady, an’ that’s what he’s offerin’. Plus, we’re friends. Sort of. I think?”

“Really just pumpin’ me full of confidence, ain’t ya?” he muttered. He looked concerned, concentrated. “You had something else to talk about, right?”

She’d missed their idle chatter so much she’d clean forgot why she came. Charity started to attention, rubbing her neck. “Right! Right. That’s, uh, that’s why I’m here. ‘Bout the Memory Den.” One deep breath. It seemed rehearsing your inner speech five times over in the mirror did jack shit for the real deal.

Meanwhile, Hancock watched her, arms spread over the back of the chair. He stayed quiet, thankfully, while she sorted her words out. His encouragement came in the form of a soft twitch of his lips, a little nod. Charity nodded back.

“Look,” she continued, “I don’t- I don’t know exactly how much y’ saw, when ya…looked, into my head. An’ I ain’t really angry with ya for doin’ it – how could I be? Amari told me there wasn’t really another way t’ get me out. For that, y’ have no idea how thankful I am.” Charity steadied her tone by busying her fingers with the seams on her jeans, “But…well, first, I’ve got a question.”

“Alright,” Hancock said, “Shoot.”

“How much did y’ see?” she asked. “I know when y’ started speakin’ t’ me, but that doesn’t mean y’ weren’t there before that.”

His expression shifted from open, understanding, to pained in a second. Hancock was suddenly frowning, his fingers clenching, unclenching, eyes locked on the table between them. He tightened his lips. Every second that he didn’t speak deepened the fear in her gut more, until Charity was sighing, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I’m- I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t _mean_ for y’ to see it an’ believe me if I could-“

“First off. Stop apologizing.” Hancock had spoken up again, his tone uneasy, unreadable. “I’m not – it’s just hard to find a way to talk about it, sister. Directly answerin’, we came in right about the point where your…husband, did.” The way he said “husband” was nearly robotic. Like he’d lost all emotion attached to the word. Charity watched the way it worked around his jaw, like something rotten, curling his lip, baring fangs. The expression was gone in a second. “Saw, uh, everything after that.”

“I…see.” She could tell he had questions to. They pulled at his mouth, opening it, closing it, but he ultimately didn’t make a sound, because Charity knew he saw this as her time to talk. She was grateful for that. “I wish y’ didn’t see it. Not anythin’ against you, specifically. But it’s…not somethin’ I wanted associated with me.”

“Why?” he asked, and she could hear every other question beneath his tone, “Christ, you didn’t think I’d judge you, that any of us would judge you for that shit, right?”

“Of course not!” she shot back, almost offended, “That’s the last thing I’d think of y’all. I didn’t feel judged. It’s just that…” she took a breath, steadied her tone, “It’s like I said. I didn’t wanna be associated with it. Anyone looks at me, all they’re gonna think of is how Nate treated me. I ain’t gonna be my own person anymore – that won’t matter. I’m just a victim now.” Charity didn’t look back at Hancock, even if she knew he’d never stopped looking at her. “An’ it’s just _hard_ t’ talk about, too. But please don’t think I kept it secret because I didn’t trust ya.”

He was quiet. Hancock sighed, evenly, took his arm off the couch and slung it across his lap. “Look, sunshine – I need to make one thing clear. The only time I’ve thought of _you_ as a victim was when my knife was in your stomach. After that, you made it pretty damn clear the Commonwealth could eat your dust.” She smiled a bit at that, and he grinned back, encouraged. “I mean, shit, you just came back more and more beat, and every time you shot out those gates like a molerat outta hell, lookin’ for _more_ trouble. Seeing what I saw ain’t gonna change that. Especially not if you don’t want it to.”

Even if she’d had a bone in her body to mistrust him, the look in his eyes, that firm, genuine approval was so warm in her chest that she couldn’t help but smile wider, biting her lip at the feeling of it. Hancock’s own gaze softened. “…Now, I will admit,” he added, “I ever _see_ that husband of yours, unless you hold me back, he’s gettin’ his own damn brand of Goodneighbor whoopass.” His grin had turned dangerous again, and yep, those were _definitely_ fangs.

Charity’s own smile faded a bit at that. But, at least, that former reluctance that bit at her throat had eased, enough that she could speak again. “…Y’ won’t have to,” she said softly. “Nate died.”

Hancock stopped grinning. He furrowed his brow. “…Shit. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

“No- no, it’s okay, really.” Charity shrugged. “It happened before I met ya. When I said I was married, all those times, I just…I figured I was holdin’ off the reality of it. Made it easier t’ handle. But the truth is, he’s dead, an’ it ain’t gonna change any time soon.”

“…How did it happen?” Hancock said, “If, uh, I can ask.”

“Got shot.” Charity tightened her fingers into her jacket. “But, uh, as for _how_ he got shot…”

“Hey, hey, you don’t gotta tell me,” he immediately offered, hands up, “I get it. That shit’s painful. I’m grateful I heard this much as it is. I ain’t never been entitled to one iota of your personal information, sunshine. You sharin’ that shit is a personal favor, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, “I ain’t really ready for that, anyhow. But I really do mean it, Hancock. Thank you. I can say that now, right?”

“Do believe those were the terms,” he agreed, smiling again, though a little cautiously. “Can I ask you somethin’, though?”

“Shoot.”

“When we met, you said you were looking for someone. You don’t gotta tell me, of course. But after this, lord, if I can help…” he huffed. “I’d just like to know.”

If he’d been one inch less sincere, she wouldn’t have told him. But Hancock was looking at her intently, jaw set, open and trusting. She couldn’t feel threatened from him if she tried. Charity still paused, though, still wondered if she was ready – but sometimes the only way to dive deep was to take a leap of faith. “I’m looking for my son,” she said, “Shaun.”

“Your son,” he repeated. She nodded. Hancock then breathed out a slow, heavy breath, and rubbed his temple. “Sorry, sorry. Stuff with kids, it just – shit gets to me. Don’t go tellin’ my boys I’m a sap now, you hear?” Even through his grin, she saw something hurt, a part of him wince. Charity frowned and stood up. Hancock’s eyes followed her movements until she was sitting next to him, and then he jerked, because she put one of her hands on his own.

“Do ya have kids, Hancock?” she asked softly. He just smiled, albeit weakly.

“Kinda. You’re gonna freak, though.”

“On God, no freak from me,” she laughed, miming a cross across her chest. He shook his head with a snicker.

“Fahrenheit.”

“ _What in-_ no, no, no freakin’, Charity, y’ promised,” the effort to keep down her outburst was more physical than she realized, but by God she did it, ignoring Hancock’s snickers at her effort. “Don’t laugh at me! How was I supposed t’ predict _that_? She’s my age!”

“You’re kidding,” he said with a grin, “You’re twenty four? Goddamn, now I _really_ feel like a creep.”

“I ain’t denyin’ that.”

“But I’m a handsome creep, right?”

“You give a man an inch…” she muttered, but not through a frown. Hancock just shoved her shoulder lightly with his own.

“If it makes you feel better, she’s adopted. It’s…a hell of a long story. I’ll tell it to you one day.”

“An’ I’ll tell you mine.” Charity held up her pinky. “Deal?”

Hancock rose a brow, but held up his pinky too, with no small amount of confusion. “Sister, what do I do with this?”

“Y’all really lost the best stuff, didn’t you?” she muttered. Charity hooked her pinky around his. “There. It’s a swear now. Y’ can’t break it.”

“On my life, I won’t,” he promised. The seriousness of his tone was hilarious. Hancock’s grin grew back, though, and soon he used their interlocked fingers to yank her just a bit closer, Charity yelping in shock when his arm landed around her shoulders. His other arm joined it. A hug. Oh. This was a hug.

She gingerly wrapped her grip back around him. He responded by tugging her closer. “I promise, I ain’t gonna treat you like a victim,” he whispered, “But I also ain’t gonna just let you be. I’ve got a proposition for you, Jones.”

“Do y’ have t’ hug me for this proposition?”

“Nah, I did this cause I wanted to.” He pulled back. Hancock tilted his head down at her. “You wanna hear?”

“Edge of my seat.” She chuckled.

Hancock flashed his eyes over her, proving her lie, and Charity just rolled her eyes, ignoring the heat in her gut. He finally seemed to settle on a slightly raised brow, then jerked his thumb to his hat. “See, this jaunty little tricorn gets awful heavy at times. After this, _all_ of this, I think I…need to take a walk. Clear my head.”

“Alright…” she said, clearly enjoying the theatrics.

“So,” he continued, “Here's what I've been wonderin'. This thing with Bobbi - what pushed her that far? I mean, shit, it had to be done, but damn." Hancock gave a little laugh, full of bemusement, "To escalate like that, to do what she did...Have I become the man? Putting down people's freedoms to act like themselves?”

"'Course not, Hancock," Charity started, but he held up a finger. She closed her mouth and let him continue.

"I don't wanna turn into some kinda tyrant. Even unknowingly. And I think someone like you can keep a brother's head level." He suddenly stood. Charity jerked with the motion, and then Hancock was above her, haloed by the light of the window behind him. What an angel he made. “This is my proposition, Jones. If you ever wanna leave Goodneighbor, get yourself into trouble, then I’d much appreciate it if you got into that trouble with me.”

Her eyes widened, and then Charity felt something tighten in her chest, strangely amazed at the way she couldn’t peel the growing smile off her face. “Hancock…are you implyin’…”

“Hey, it’s just an offer,” he said with a shrug, “If you don’t want to-“

“Of course I do!” she blurted, surprising them both. Hancock recovered first, and smirked. Charity managed a sheepish smile back. “Of _course_ I do,” she repeated, “But you’re the mayor. Ain’t y’ got, I don’t know, responsibilities?”

“I’ve taken walks before. They’re a smart bunch. They know what to do.” He shrugged again. “C’mon, sunshine. Don’t you trust me?”

“With my life,” she answered firmly. “Y’know I do.”

“Good.” He patted her on the shoulder. “Then I think it’s time for one more speech.”

* * *

 

He checked his pack. Two hundred and fifty good caps, a hefty weight and comfortable feeling off his shoulder. Unfortunately, the lightness in his ammo pack kept him from getting too chummy with the thought of more drinks than usual at the Third Rail. Boss had cleaned him out real good on that one, he did. Could have _warned_ him, but nooo, of course not, who tells him anything anymore?

The gates of Goodneighbor were familiar the way an amicable ex was – something you know you shouldn’t mess with but still alluring for all the wrong reasons, and try as you might, you just couldn’t find a damn good reason to forget them. Sure made for a comfortable hole to stash himself into, even if he got harangued every other day by old “friends” with too much time on their hands. And here he was, trotting back because he knew he had no other choice.

“MacCready,” Daisy greeted, grinning at his saunter into the shop, “How’s it been? Haven’t seen that mug around for a while.”

“You know me, Daisy,” MacCready chuckled, “Get one call and it’s off to the races. The races being caps and a hel- heck of a lotta drinks.”

“Sure, sure.” Daisy wiped down another spot on the counter, then leaned over, resting her elbows on the surface. “You sure picked a hell of a time to work, crackshot.”

“What’s that mean? Don’t tell me the one time I leave, something actually happens?” He smirked lightly, took off his hat, and ran his hand through his choppy hair. How dirt kept getting in it, he wasn’t sure. “What’s it this time? Hancock piss off Marowski again? Vice versa?”

“Ooh, wish it were that easy, kid,” Daisy shook her head. “No, no, wasn’t nearly the fun we were used to. Bobbi No-Nose went and hired herself some Gunners.” Mac must have paled, because Daisy was quick to assure him, “They’re dead, don’t you go faintin’, now. Bobbi, too. Tried to stage a coup on Goodneighbor.”

“Holy shi- ugh. Crap.” He breathed out, slowly. Mac returned the hat to his head, fitting it into place. Daisy just snorted in approval.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself. One of them was that other half botherin’ you, I think – Winlock.”

“No way, Winlock’s dead?” Maybe that was too wide a grin he had, but he didn’t care. “Don’t suppose I’m lucky enough that Barnes tagged along?”

“No, one time those lovebirds weren’t in a tree, I’m afraid.” Daisy shrugged. “I ain’t doing the story justice. You should go talk to Hancock, should ya want some jucier morsels.”

“Hey, maybe so,” MacCready said, “He in the usual spot?”

“Well, I think- oh, hold on now,” Daisy straightened as a few drifters jogged by them, a slow smile spreading on her face. “Lookit that, Bobby. You came just in time for the show.”

“You mean I gotta listen to another speech?” he groaned, even as he quickened his pace to the balcony as well. Daisy was ahead of him, as was KLE-0 and a few others. When they finally arrived in the square, he looked up, and at the same time the balcony doors opened. He barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Hancock was a load of trouble the Commonwealth needed badly, but damn if MacCready couldn’t have done without the _presentation_ of it. Subtlety was a mistress that had done him sorely wrong.

But as he stepped through, someone else was behind him. A young woman, shorter than him, lean and healthy looking. Her tanned skin was decorated with a few jagged, young scars across her biceps, at odd contrast with the unmarred rest of the flesh. Her blonde hair was curly, short, neatly chopped just around her chin. And she was looking at Hancock with the softest blue eyes he’d ever seen.

_Okay_ , he thought to himself, _That’s new._

 “Hey, everybody!” Hancock called, hands up, “Gather up. I got somethin’ you all need to hear.”

MacCready hung towards the back, propping himself up against the wall. He folded his arms over his chest. This was gonna be one of the long ones, he could tell.

“Look, everyone,” he continued, “I’m taking a walk. It’s time for your fearless leader to get back out there, mix it up in the dirt before I forget what that feels like.” Beside him, blondie chuckled, and he laughed back, the two of them sharing some little moment MacCready wasn’t sure needed to be broadcasted from a 20 foot high balcony. To each their own.

One of the watch frowned and piped up from the back, startling him out of his reverie, “You can’t leave, Hancock! We need you!”

MacCready rolled his eyes. Whiny bunch, they were. But Hancock, ever mayoral, just waved his hand dismissively. “Hey, I’m _always_ gonna be here in spirit, my man. Goodneighbor and I? We got a connection.” One thumb jerked to his chest. “But, like any hot and heavy relationship, sometimes you gotta spend time apart. Let things cool off. Remind yourself of who you are.”

Now, it may have just been him, but Hancock’s beetle-black eyes might have shifted to blondie on his side, then right back once she looked up. Hard to tell, this far away. Mac rose a brow. Hancock spoke up again. “So, that’s why I’m leaving. I’m still your mayor, and I’m still gonna be here when you need me, but the time has come to stop living so damn comfortable.” MacCready mouthed the saying along with him, “And nobody in power deserves to be comfortable for long!”

The crowd cheered. Even MacCready couldn’t resist a little chuckle – what could he say? The man knew how to pump an audience. He’d let them have their fun, get himself a drink, now without the added benefit of Winlock’s company. Interesting that they put him down – he could have sworn “no turf war” was a deciding factor in his safety there.

But before he could sneak off, Hancock’s voice rang out again, catching him just as he was slinking through the crowd, “Don’t think I don’t see you there, MacCready. You really not gonna greet your mayor, after all this time?”

He stopped, sighed, and fixed Hancock with a weary grin. “Hey, weren’t you just leaving, anyway? I can’t do the same?”

“Not until we have some drinks, brother.” Hancock chuckled. “Boy, do you have a story waiting for ya.”

* * *

 

The Third Rail was alive, more so than usual – Magnolia belting her heart out on stage and Charlie nearly overheating from the amount of orders. That was behind them, though, and quite literally; Hancock had situated himself, Mac, and the new girl in the VIP room, a tray of drinks to their side.

“So, you’re telling me,” Mac said around his beer, tone slightly slurred, “Ten Gunners? And you just – what, how many watchmen did you take with you?”

Hancock laughed, loud and dangerous. He jerked his elbow lightly into the girl’s side. “Not as many as you’d think, Mac. Jones here took care of most of them.”

“Mayor,” she chided, flushing through a grin, “Don’t listen t’ him. I ain’t done much more than some self defense, was all.”

Her accent made him blink. That sounded like Mojave, or southern at least. Not that he hadn’t met any travelers before, but this far north, it was a bit jarring. Mac just shrugged, leaning back in his chair.

“In my experience, modesty gets nobody nowhere. If you’re getting the shi- er, crap, sung outta your accolades by this guy, I’d run with that as far as you can.” He tilted his head. “What’s your name? Jones?”

“Charity,” she corrected, “Charity Jones.”

“Uh-huh.” He took another sip, watching how she drank hers – which wasn’t really _drinking_ so much as it was knocking the thing back hard enough to snap a neck. Gone in a flash. He was, apparently, the only one surprised. Hancock just grinned through it and sipped his own.

“Too bad you got here just as I’m leavin’,” he said, “Was hoping we’d cause something righteously wicked like the old days. What’s this job you were out on, anyways?”

“God, you tell me,” Mac shot back, “Guy barely talked to me in person – just a bunch of weird letters and instructions. Paid in person, though, every time. Had me scoping out some folks in Diamond City – I dunno, some rival or whatever. Didn’t explain the details. Doesn’t matter, though – they point, I shoot, that’s the deal.”

“Wait, you’re a mercenary?” Charity piped up, curls bouncing as she leaned forward, “Wait, y’ must be the mercenary I came here for in the first place! I heard ‘bout you from Preston!”

“Preston?” MacCready repeated, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Wait, no, that rings a bell. You’re…talking about Garvey, right? Minutemen?”

“Yeah!” she nodded again. Boy, she sure was bouncy. “Told me y’ did good work. S’pose I don’t much need it now, though.” A sheepish chuckle, and she set her drink down.

Mac just shrugged. “Hey, as long as you’re not preaching about the Atom or trying to sell something, I’m always open for hire.”

She grinned at that. Mac risked a look to Hancock, to say something else, but stopped at the fact that the mayor was clearly not looking at him at all. No, he was still looking at Charity. She looked back at him, too, eventually, but then he jerked his gaze away and right back to Mac’s, and the three of them looked at each other extremely awkwardly for the next three seconds. He was the first to break the silence.

“I’m not staying long, either,” he continued, “The same guy that hired me gave me a bit of a break. Supposed to come back to work for him in a week.”

Before anyone could respond, though, through the VIP hallway Fahrenheit burst, stumbling through the liquor with a pink flush to her cheeks. She spotted Charity and grinned like a wildcat. “Jones!” she called over the jazz in the back, “I thought you promised me some drinks!”

“Now, that I did, didn’t I?” Charity laughed, standing. She tossed a look over her shoulder to Hancock, tucking a curl behind her ear, “You don’t mind?”

“Nah, have at it, sunshine,” Hancock called as she walked away, “Fahr, don’t go crazy, now.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Fahrenheit shot back. She and Charity disappeared back into the crowd, leaving Mac to relax a little more into his couch, take off his hat by the brim, and run his hands through his hair again. He sighed.

“Kinda curious,” he piped up, “You taking off with her because she’s strong? Doesn’t strike me as that good a fighter.”

“Nah, she hates fighting, actually,” Hancock chuckled. “First job I sent her to had her coming back like Swiss cheese because she didn’t even wanna shoot a raider.”

“For real?” he barked out a laugh, half in amazement, “And you wanna take up with that? I’d lose my patience in a minute.”

“Yeah, you would,” he admitted, though his smile didn’t fade. “Eh, hard to explain, Mac. Short version is that she’s got somethin’ I’m interested in figuring out. And she gives up a lot for people she cares about. Figured I could be rolling with way worse, yeah?”

“…Well, your funeral,” Mac shrugged. He sipped the last of his beer and grabbed another one. They sat in comfortable silence for a bit, just drinking their respective poisons, Hancock shifting occasionally and Mac staring off at the ripped posters along the wall. The muted jazz from outside was far in the back of his mind, but it was comfortable, familiar, from all his time spent down here as it was.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Hancock suddenly said, “She’s got a job she wants to take care of. So, this is kind of a send off.” With a shrug, he turned back to Mac, smirking. “Hope we’ll see you around, brother.”

“Hey,” Mac tilted his head, “You know you will. At the least, I can find _you_ – you know how frustrating it is to a sniper to see that getup? The only place you don’t stand out is that naval ship on the building south of here.”

The mayor laughed. Mac laughed along. They toasted their drinks, and took one last sip.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao I know I just posted the last chapter like two days ago, but I'm REALLY inspired to write this story now and I don't wanna wait and risk losing that inspiration!! Writing this thing is also like, major stress relief for me lol  
> Anyways, tell me what you think!


	12. Just Respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's off to the woods for our adventurous little duo, who now have a lot to learn about each other. Let's hope they like what they see.
> 
> -Trigger warning for wild animal death and slight gore.-

“Charity, I’m begging you here,” Fahrenheit leveled, “You _have_ to shoot people. Please shoot people.”

“Fahr,” Charity rolled her eyes, gently easing the girl’s hand off her shoulder, “I’m not gonna die out there. Y’ don’t gotta worry so much.”

“I’m not worrying, I’m protecting my blood pressure,” she shot back, “Just think of raiders as molerats. Really tall molerats with facepaint. That can talk.”

“Somehow, that makes it so much easier…” Charity huffed, smiling despite herself and shaking her head. “Darlin’, I’ll be fine. Hancock’s with me, anyhow.”

“Yeah,” Hancock piped up over her shoulder, “C’mon, Fahrenheit, don’t doubt your old man’s skills just yet. I’ll keep most of her whole. The parts that matter, anyways.”

“I’m filled with confidence.” Fahrenheit was not filled with confidence. “Fine, fine. Do you have everything you need?” She cocked a brow at Charity. “Any more stimpacks you won’t use?”

Charity responded by sticking out her tongue. Hancock, beside her now, just laughed lowly and reached out a hand to ruffle Fahrenheit’s hair – too slow, she ducked under it and sidled up beside the other girl.

“We’ll be _fine_ ,” he said, firmly. “Take care of the place while I’m gone.”

At that, Fahrenheit nodded, but she couldn’t help the splinter of unease in her chest at the thought of him walking out those gates. Had Hancock ever left since she’d been there? He’d traveled, sure, but something this extended – no, don’t dwell on it. This was her job. She wasn’t letting him down again.

Charity shrugged her bag higher on her shoulder and tucked a shortened lock behind her ear. She shifted her weight, balanced her rifle on the sling on her back, then looked back up at Hancock. “Well,” she said, “I s’pose we should get goin’. Nahant’s a long way from here.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Hancock agreed. They started out the gate, one of his hands waving behind him. “Have fun, proxy Mayor.”

Behind her, she heard one of the watchmen groan, mumbling under his breath. “Goddamn, we’re all gonna die.”

* * *

 

The sky had grown amber. Hancock always had a funny relationship with sunsets – the rising towers of Goodneighbor kept him from seeing the bulk of them most of the time, but the rare occasions he left showed the horizon decked in indigo and orange like someone ground hubflowers across the sky. Shit was beautiful. He was a little grateful for the opportunity to see them again.

Speaking of hubflowers – Charity had picked some on their walk a few hours ago, and stuffed the bulk of them in her bag, “For Pickman, remember?” she’d said. However, one of the prettiest blossoms she’d saved for herself; tucked it in behind her ear against her blonde locks. He blinked at the sudden reminder of the sunset following them over the hill.

Damn, is this what crushes did to people? Made them think of sunsets and shit just when he looked at her hair?

_Not a “crush”_ , he reminded himself, _Folks like me don’t do that. Just respect. A lot of respect._

“-y’ listenin’ t’ me, Hancock?” he heard her voice fade in. “Hancock?” Then, carefully, “…John?”

“Huh?” he jumped, looking down at her, taking in the furrow of her thin brows and only giving a half-smile as a response, “Sorry, sister. Got a little lost in thought. You sayin’ something?”

“Goodness, y’ must be tired, then,” Charity mumbled, turning back to their walk. “Been callin’ your name for a solid half-minute, I was. I _was_ gonna ask if you had somewhere y’ wanted t’ stay for the night, but that’s…sooner than I expected, apparently.” Her grin was slightly teasing, but ultimately, good natured. Like the rest of her. “We can make camp, take a break, if y’ like.”

Damn, had he really spaced out like that? Hancock couldn’t remember the last time he’d let himself go like that on the open road. Too many dangers, too much unknown. A thought-trip like that one was usually a death sentence. What made him so damn secure that he thought he could just forget the basic rules of the wasteland?

“That ain’t a half-bad idea,” he admitted, “Don’t know how I feel about camping in the open like this, though. Unfortunately, there ain’t many settlements nearby.” He scratched behind his neck, sighing. “Let’s look for something a little more covered up.”

Charity nodded. He must have been tired, he realized, at least compared to her – the spring in her step was a leap compared to his trudge. Or, maybe that was just the way she walked. He was really thinking way too hard about this.

They quickly abandoned the highway for higher ground, further into the woods and across some raised boulders. Charity stretched her arms above her head with a small yawn as the sunset grew more blue than yellow. The hubflower was still in her hair, miraculously, even through their huffing and climbing.

He was about to just damn the whole thing – sleeping in the open would be suicide, sure, but if they kept watch then _maybe_ they wouldn’t get ambushed – when Charity suddenly exclaimed, grabbing his arm and jerking her pointer finger to their front. He had to narrow his eyes to see it, but sure enough, a small, dilapidated cabin was perched in the center of a grove of trees, nearly idyllic if one didn’t count the skeletons around the porch.

“Perfect,” he heard her whisper, and take a step forward – not before he yanked her back gently by her collar. Charity shot him a questioning look.

“Hold it,” he started, “Too good to be true, sunshine. Watch.” With his shotgun, he aimed and fired a round right past the building. Seconds later, a bundle of ferals all shuffled out at the distraction. He supposed they were lucky they’d seen it from so far away.

Charity was grimacing. “Well, damn.”

“Yeah, usually the case with pre-war buildings,” he said, shrugging. “We’ll just find another- what are you doing?”

She was shuffling her rifle over her shoulder and crouching with an ease he didn’t expect from her tiny frame. Charity just motioned for him to crouch too, which he did – albeit slowly.

“Didn’t wanna waste ammo this soon, but hell, I’m not slumpin’ around when there’s a fine place just in front of us. I’ll just pick ‘em off.” He must have looked doubtful, because Charity was frowning at him, cheeks puffed. “I just don’t like killin’ _people_ , Hancock. Sure, maybe they _were_ people, once, but not anymore.”

“Hope I’m on the right side of “people” for ya, sunshine,” he muttered, half-joking. Hancock didn’t get to laugh before Charity’s expression shifted to absolute disbelief.

“Hancock, I’d _never_ \- why would y’ even think that?” she breathed. “Y’ don’t really think I’d-“

“Hey, hey, it was a joke, sister,” he said, palms up. Still, Hancock couldn’t help a small smirk, and flicked the brim of her hat. “No hard feelings.”

“…Oh. Right.” He saw her cheeks flush. Apple red on tanned freckles. A bit of pride stirred in his chest even after she looked away, and he saw her shoulders tense, fingers lock. She flicked the safety off her gun. Interested despite himself, he followed her aim, right to one of the ambling ferals on the porch. Shit, she wasn’t gonna try to hit _that_ one, was she? That far off?

No time to warn her before a sharp _crack_ of gunfire and the feral’s head exploded. The others instantly shifted to alarm, but didn’t know where to look – didn’t matter, really, because Charity was firing off round after round, heads popping like macabre balloons after each shot. The last one dropped dead on the campfire. They waited a few seconds, to see if any more crawled out, and then none did.

“There we are,” she said, standing up again. Charity grinned at him. “Told ya.”

He had to make a mental measurement. They were at least – what, ninety yards from the cabin? And she hadn’t missed a single shot? What was more, she hadn’t missed a single _head_ shot?

“Sister,” he breathed, “I’m starting to be grateful for that little “rule” of yours.”

“Whatcha mean?” She started walking to the cabin. He caught up with her.

“I _mean_ ,” he said, “I just saw you pop a feral’s head off from ninety goddamn meters, and now I’m wondering how the hell the Commonwealth survived this long with an aim like that on the loose.” As they drew closer and he saw the rancid corpses of Charity’s victims, he lightly kicked one aside, grimacing at the feeling of soft flesh in his boot. “Shit, I’ve never even seen MacCready shoot like that.”

Charity laughed at that, a little sheepishly, hopping up on the porch and grabbing the shirt collar of another feral – with surprising strength, she lugged it off the porch and dusted off her hands. “Well, that’s mighty kind. I ain’t never been one t’ turn down a compliment.”

“Where’d a vaultie learn to shoot like that?” he pried, following her up. The interior of the cabin was bare, mostly, but a wooden bedframe and molded couch decorated their respective corners. What looked like it might have once been a stove was in the center.

Charity flopped onto the couch, already unlacing her boots. “Well,” she started, “S’pose I really ain’t got a reason t’ keep it from ya, anymore. Though, would’ve thought y’ saw it in my memories.” Maybe for dramatic effect, or just because she was tired, she paused until she’d gotten one boot off and started on another, and only then did Hancock realize this might have been her excuse not to look at him. He didn’t try to push it.

“I ain’t from a vault,” Charity continued, softer, “Well, mostly, anyhow.”

“Gonna need some clarification for that, if you’re comfortable,” he said, sitting down on the bedframe. Hancock fixed his eyes on her posture, the slight hardness in her jaw, and said nothing more. The situation had become nearly unbearably delicate.

It was a little bit before she responded again. She sounded like the words were unfamiliar to her. “…Grew up in the south,” she finally said, “Place called Texas. No, it ain’t anywhere near the Mojave.” Off came her other boot, her toes wriggling free in her socks. “Lived on a farm ‘til I got married – any kinda store or supply was usually too far t’ travel, unless it was somethin’ real important, so huntin’ was just about the only way t’ get regular food. Ulysses- ah, my brother,” She tightened her lips, sighed, and continued, “He was too young t’ hunt big game, so I went along instead. When bullets are expensive, y’ learn t’ conserve by makin’ them count.”

To keep her from feeling like she’d said all that for nothing, Hancock offered a little “Well, whaddya know,” but inside he had ten different things he wanted to say. What did “not from a vault, not really” mean, then? How did she travel from this “Texas” all the way up here and survive with that rule of hers?

He tightened his lips, then tried his luck, leaning over to inspect his knife with practiced nonchalance. “…So, where’s the vault part come in, then?” he said, “Don’t gotta tell me, if you don’t want to. Just curious.”

Charity was silent. He risked a look out the corner of his eyes – but her own were locked on the floor, distant, blank. Shit. He’d overstepped. Too far, Hancock. Too much.

“Don’t- don’t worry about it,” he said quickly, hands up. “Just a question. Just makin’ conversation, is all.”

She looked up at him at that, her gaze refocusing, coming back from wherever she’d been. Then, Charity smiled, but not her usual wide, dimpled grin that made him warm in places he’d forgotten about. Just something soft, a little sad, but soft overall. She sighed.

“One day,” she said, “I promised I’d tell ya. Just not now.”

“Sure, sister. Sure.”

She stood up. Stretched again, some of her joints popping while she rolled her neck. “I’m a lil’ too wired up t’ sleep right now, so I’m gonna see if I can’t find somethin’ t’ eat. Which…ugh. Means I gotta put my boots back on.” Her stubborn frown was back, Hancock holding back a mighty snicker at the near _pout_ in which she begrudgingly slipped her boots on, making a half-assed effort to lace them up.

“Don’t go too far,” he said, and when his tone came out softer than he meant, making her blink with another dust of red across her cheeks, he corrected himself, “I mean, y’know. It’s getting dark soon. Probably not smart to stay out right now.”

“…Right,” she said. Charity nodded. “I’ll be back, then.”

* * *

 

The radstag went down with a low whine, large body crumpling beneath the tree. Charity waited for any others, and once it was clear, shouldered her rifle again and slid down the hill, careful to keep her footing. The beast was larger up close. Larger than the deer before, though the deer before didn’t have two heads, either.

Hancock had asked about the before, and she didn’t know what to tell him. She’d played it safe, told the truth but nothing else to decorate it. And, really, it was more than she would have told him before everything happened. The veritable bear trap that used to seize around her throat when she tried to speak before was gentler now, but it still pinched, as she found when he’d asked her about the vault.

She’d tell him, one day. She would. But not now.

Charity took Pickman’s knife out her pocket, poised it over the corpse, then paused – she could section the meat out here, but that would take longer, and she’d be farther from the cabin in nightfall. It was probably best to lug the whole thing back. Strong as she was, though, she wasn’t quite sure if she was strong enough for _that_.

“Hm,” she huffed, hand on her chin. Should she go get Hancock to help? But he was probably sleeping by now. He needed his rest. No, she’d handle this. She would just…take her time.

* * *

 

Hancock was not asleep.

Not for lack of trying. There were only so many times a brother could roll in a couch before the whole thing lost what little novelty it had. He blamed the worry eating away in his stomach. Charity had left an hour ago, dusk was ending, and he was starting to hear the telltale howl of mongrel dogs as they scavenged whatever died behind them. For the fourth time, he reminded himself that Jones knew what she was doing. She wasn’t stupid.

She also wasn’t _here_ , which meant he was free to practice his favorite method of relaxation. He retrieved a small Jet cannister from his pack and grinned, nearly kissing the damn thing before inhaling it instead. The high was even better now that he’d drawn it out. The world slowed, he felt whatever anxiety he had cease, and he leaned his head back to let reality swim around him.

In his glazed state, he had the time to wonder how business would go in Nahant. Pickman – just the name made him grimace, even through the Jet – must have had some damn charisma, to charm Charity into working for his murder house. They were raiders, he supposed, so it wasn’t too bad, but the fact that Jones had decided she could stomach it was interesting. Maybe it was just a matter of whose hands were pulling the trigger.

Speaking of triggers – damn, her shooting was wicked. She’d been that good a shot the whole time and hadn’t thought to use it? Sure, he knew why, but it was rare to see morals that firm in the wasteland, especially when they were pressured by eagle eyed skills. Maybe it was a good thing she didn’t like killing. There’d be a whole trail of bodies if she did.

Maybe he could stomach a little nap. She’d be back in a bit. She promised.

* * *

 

“Would y’ _kindly_ ,” she growled, lugging the stag another step, “ _Cooperate_ ,” one more trudge, blowing her bangs from her eyes, “For _one_ second, damn it?”

The radstag might have responded if it weren’t dead. Charity groaned, grit her teeth, and pulled harder, lugging the beast by the legs further up the hill. Damn, why _up_ the hill? Couldn’t she have thought that through? Hey, Charity, here’s a wild idea – if you know you’re going to lug something twice as heavy as a horse and three times as godless, maybe next time, forget the height advantage. Just a thought.

The sun had set, and though the sky wasn’t quite dark yet, the warning blue across the clouds told her she needed to hurry. But Mr. Radstag wasn’t letting her hurry. She really should have just quartered the damn thing here and now, she realized. Or done it before. But there wasn’t any time, and now all the rest of the corpse would do is attract other critters to feast.

Maybe if she worked fast. Charity dug out her knife again and hooked it firmly into the leg, slicing it down like the deer back home. She made quick work, but the bones and skin were thicker than she was used to, mottled and gauged in a way that kept messing with the practiced movements of her knife. She grumbled.

A howl startled her, mostly because of its closeness, and when a few others joined it she felt dread crawl up her chest. Considering she couldn’t see the dogs, she had some time, but the last thing she wanted was to be caught by a pack smack dab in the middle of the forest. Cutting the stag wasn’t doing her any good by now. She just grabbed the uncut leg and started dragging again, a little assisted by the desperation the closer those howls came.

* * *

 

It wasn’t the howling that woke him, but the familiar buzzing of a bloatfly inspecting the open window. Hancock peeked an eye open, grumbled, then lazily flicked out his knife and caught the bug in the gut. It dropped with a sickening _thunk_.

He would have closed his eyes to go back to sleep if he hadn’t realized how much _darker_ it was than when he’d started. No more light in the sky now – just pitch black save for the lantern he’d lit earlier in the corner of the cabin. Hancock frowned. Peeked his head up, checked if Charity had come back during his rest, but the bed was undisturbed. Too quiet.

Shit. He’d warned her about the dark, hadn’t he? She’d said she’d grown up on a farm, so maybe he didn’t have to be _this_ concerned, but damn if his instincts were going to be the voice of reason. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad to check on her. She wouldn’t get mad about that. Hell, she never got mad at him for anything.

He grabbed his shotgun and stepped out, picking up the knife from the bloatfly and making a half-assed attempt to wipe off the blood. Sheathing it, he held up the lamplight, thanking the ghoul-eroded eyesight for letting him navigate the darkness.

* * *

 

She was about halfway back to the cabin, she thought, but maybe she wasn’t – the stag was quickly eroding her ability to care. In the back of her mind she knew she shouldn’t have bothered, should have just left it and let the dogs have a free treat, but she couldn’t make herself let go. If she dried the meat right, they’d have food for a while, which meant less caps to spend, which meant Hancock could have a reason to rely on her.

Damn. That’s what this was about, wasn’t it? No time to blame her own failed sense of emotional intelligence. Charity cursed her ego and hauled the stag by another leg, giving her a little more traction, but screaming at the muscles in her back to get a move on. She bit her lip and yelped when she tasted blood.

Another yelp – or, no, a howl, sounded off close to her. Way too close. Charity jerked her head but in the darkness saw nothing, not until a click on her Pip-Boy’s flashlight showed a pair of glinting, narrowed eyes and drooling fangs. A few more eyes were behind it. All looking at her.

Well, shit.

The dog lunged at her and she abandoned the stag to dodge, wheeling her rifle around its’ strap to fire off a round. It dropped, but right behind it were two others, snarling and yapping and moving too quickly for her to get a steady shot. She managed to crack one upside the head, hard enough to send it sprawling, but the other barked and jumped, and soon she was on the ground with a very sharp jaw yapping at her face. Charity hissed, bracing two of her hands at its’ throat. It did little good – just kept the bites millimeters from her skin.

Her arms were tired. They weren’t going to hold it forever. The dog snarled again and ducked its head for a final bite-

One familiar, loud _crack_ of a bullet propelled it off her. With a whine, the dog collapsed, tongue lolling out while she realized just how close to death she’d come. She didn’t wanna move at the moment. Maybe if she just laid here, she could sort out what the hell had happened.

“Goddamn, Charity, you better get up,” a rasp beside her growled, and when she turned her head Hancock was there, illuminated in green by the Pip-Boy’s light. It seemed to accentuate the lines of worry in his face. He just huffed, sidled up next to her, and gently eased her up by the shoulders.

She spoke, but a little dazedly. “Uh, thank y-“

“The hell was that?” he suddenly spat, “Did y’ think I said “come back before dark” as a joke or somethin’?”

Charity jumped at the bite in his tone, eyes wide, and couldn’t help a growl of her own. “Well it ain’t like I much did this for fun, y’know! I just got a lil’ held up!”

“What, held up being dog food?” Hancock narrowed his eyes, hands suddenly latching around her shoulders. It didn’t hurt, not really, but it was enough to make Charity wince in surprise and smack his hands away. He blinked when she pushed herself across the ground, back against a tree, breaths coming out quicker than she meant to.

Neither of them spoke. Hancock’s glare slowly cooled into something no less passionate, but less sharp, more unease than anything. Charity’s stare was still smoldering.

“I, uh,” Hancock started, unsure, “Look, sorry. Didn’t mean to grab you like that.”

“It’s the fact that y’ _did_ , regardless of if y’ meant to,” she said, low, “I told y’ before. Don’t go manhandlin’ me just because y’ got angry. I’d…I’d think y’ would know why, now.”

A flash of understanding across his eyes and Hancock was palming his face, dragging his fingers down the sides like he could wipe the reside of what he’d done off his hands. “Shit, yeah, okay. Okay, that wasn’t what I meant to do. I just got…well, damn. I got worried, sister. You didn’t come back and then I see a _dog_ over you, but that don’t excuse grabbing you like that. Especially not when…well, we both know why.”

He said it firmly, honestly, like he was talking about the weather. Charity worked out the genuine concern in his gaze and watched the way his hands clenched around the fabric of his coat, and then she sighed, taking off her hat to run her hands through her hair.

“I shouldn’t have gone off either,” she admitted, “Thought I could get us somethin’ that would last for a few days, an’ I did,” she jerked her head to the radstag, “But it took a while t’ lug back an’ I lost track of time.”

“Why didn’t you just ask for help?” Hancock said. Charity smiled sheepishly.

“Y’ were tired. I didn’t wanna wake ya if y’ were sleepin’.”

“…So, you know I think that’s a stupid reason,” he grumbled, “But this ain’t the place nor time to be debatin’ that. Well, c’mon.” He stood and grabbed the back legs of the stag, jerking his head for her to follow. “We’re in this mess, might as well lug the damn thing back or this is gonna feel _real_ pointless.”

“I…yeah. You’re right.” Charity chuckled and grabbed the front end. “Let’s head back.”

* * *

 

They’d slept like logs that night, but when the morning came and Hancock awoke to an absence of Charity from the room, he felt that familiar panic seep into his gut – until he heard shuffling and the scent of roasting meat wafted through what was left of his nostrils. His stomach rumbled at the prospect.

Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Hancock rose up, sauntered to the door and leaned against it, watching Charity carefully use the spit of the campfire to turn what looked to be two chunks of radstag leg over the flame. She had her hat off, short hair tied back in a poofy little ponytail, while a few strands had escaped and framed her face, pinched in concentration. A sunrise was greeting the horizon, and he realized she’d put the hubflower back in her hair.

_Just respect_.

Whatever greeting he might have blurted was interrupted by her…humming? Yeah, she was humming, alright, some tune he’d never heard but it sounded old, simple, charming. She hummed it while she made a few more cuts to other chunks of meat she’d sectioned, and he realized she was drying them with the extra smoke of the fire.

“Stars at night, big and bright…” she sang, quietly, voice sweet and high. Charity rapped four times lightly on the spit. She hummed the rest as her head bobbed to the tune.

As much as he realized he could have watched that scene for hours, Hancock recalled Daisy’s taunt of “pining” and popped off the doorframe, dusting his jacket off like there’d been anything there to begin with. He coughed to catch her attention. “Morning, sunshine,” he greeted, grin growing crookedly at her little jump and pivot. She returned his smile shortly after.

“Mornin’, Hancock!” she called back, wiping some sweat off her brow. “Sleep well?”

“Well enough.” He stepped down off the porch to inspect the meat, and damn, was he nearly salivating. “Lookit that. Made a proper meal and everything.”

“Oh, hardly,” she said with no small amount of frustration, “Ain’t used t’ these damn bones, an’ the meat don’t cut like it used t’-“ something stopped her, seized her mouth like a vice and Charity stiffened. She got that distant look in her eyes again, just like last night, and just like last night Hancock knew better than to push the subject. Just let her bring herself back to reality slowly, jaw tight.

He spoke up, feigning normalcy. “Well, it’s proper enough for me, sister. Cooked enough that I can have a bite?”

“Might be a little raw,” she said, voice still soft, “If you’re okay with that-“

He was already grabbing the stick off the spit and sank his teeth into the meat – she was right, it was still a bit raw, but what she didn’t know what that going ghoul changed your preferences a bit when it came to the “cooked” side of things. It peeled easily off the bone, barely chewed and though it wasn’t spiced, he still tasted the smoke in it from the wood she’d burned beneath it. Anything was cuisine to a hungry stomach.

“Guess that means “okay”, then,” she muttered. Charity shook her head with a chuckle. “Look at ya – ain’t nobody raised y’ with manners?”

“What?” he said through a mouth of stag, “What’s manners got to-“

She took a rag out of her pocket and leaned up on her toes, and then she was wiping what must have been juices from the stag off his chin, just a quick swipe and pat, which wouldn’t have been much except that she was _close_ , closer than he expected. Unwillingly, he felt himself gulp the stag down.

Charity was still there.

She was looking at him, too, something like realization in her eyes, lips parted in an “o”. The rag in her hand lowered slowly, distantly, but she never moved. Hancock kept watching that “o” of her lips, surprised at his inability to look just about anywhere else. Damn. Would it be bad if he moved just a bit closer? Would she move away?

His eyes locked on that flower again, sitting pretty behind her ear, open and blooming and somehow not as wilted as he'd expected. The brightness of the blue against her blonde made some special kinda harmony. It even smelled nice, but he wasn't sure anyone without ghoul-heightened senses could tell that. Maybe that was why he was leaning a bit closer, ducking his head down, just to get a hint of that scent again. A mind of its' own, Hancock's hand found itself slowly rising up, depositing languidly on her shoulder, close to her neck where his thumb brushed against the crook. Charity seemed to lean into the touch.

She was inches away from him, he realized. Her skin felt hot under his touch.

Would she hate him if he, by any chance, just...

He leaned in, just a bit, his eyes just barely half-lidded before a _crack_ of a twig beside them made them both jump. Their heads jerked to find a crow staring back. It cawed once, grabbed the branch it had snapped in its talon, and flew off. Hancock looked back at her.

That same apple-red on her cheeks, but brighter this time, just about bright enough to mirror his duster. Her eyes were wide, gunmetal blue somehow even more pigmented as she stepped back, hand over her mouth, and quickly busied herself with the meat on the spit. Hancock envied her for her ability to move at all.

_Sure,_ he thought to himself, _respect, my ass._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter one this time, mostly because I really wanna explore how their relationship develops in the moments where it's just "them". Thank you to the incredibly sweet comments I got on the last chapter and on my other fic, you're all so nice!! Also, if any of you want a visual reference for Charity, I drew her (short hair version):  
> www.radish-al.tumblr.com/tagged/sole+survivor  
> Thanks! Lemme know what you think!


	13. The Important Folks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fahrenheit has an interesting initiation as the new Mayor, while Charity and Hancock are still traveling on their way to Nahant.

“We got a visitor, Fahrenheit.” The watchman cocked a brow just under the brim of his fedora. Fahrenheit returned his suspicion, pivoting just enough for a glance over her shoulder.

“That involves me, how?”

“Wouldn’t, ‘course, except for the fact that she’s asking for ya.” He shrugged. Fahrenheit snorted harshly and waved the back of her hand.

“Tell her the mayor’s out,” she said, “Probably just another junkie who heard about his fixes.”

“This…ain’t a junkie, boss,” he grumbled, “And even if it was, well. She asked for you by name.”

_That_ made her stop. Not the idea that her name was unknown, no – but that there were currently two options available: one, that she’d somehow become infamous enough for first-name basis grudges meeting her halfway at the gate, or two, that someone was taking advantage of Goodneighbor’s current mayor-less state. Hell, could have been both, she realized.

“Tell her I’ll be down, then,” she muttered, “In a bit.”

Her boots clunked against the aging wood as she peeled across the makeshift blinds on the window. From her vantage point she saw a figure down below, female sure enough, hardly defenseless but, by her standards, a negative threat. The woman jerked her head left and right, short black hair bouncing with the motion, like she was searching for something. She then paused to shift her newsboy cap tighter on her head.

Fahrenheit let the blinds go and sauntered back to the staircase. Various watch greeted her on the way down, muttered “boss” and “mayor” openings that rolled her eyes before she opened the door, hopped down the steps. The watch immediately looked at her like a switch, and she felt that same power Hancock had told her about in her fingertips. It took one hand motion to wave off a few more guards who looked a little more on the accosting side than was necessary.

Her steps were slow towards the strange woman, because if there was one thing she learned from Hancock, it was that mayors didn’t walk fast.

“Alright, off of her, boys,” she called, voice clear. An accompanying flick of her hand dispersed the rest of the guards – not without a little protest. Once the woman was clear, she adjusted the maroon leather of her coat with a huff, chin tilted in what must have been desperate reclamation of pride. So, they got a haughty one. Those were fun. Fahrenheit spoke up again, one brow raised. “And what’s this about asking for _me_ , pawn?”

Their visitor frowned. “Well, classic Goodneighbor welcome, I see,” she grumbled, “Mind telling your lackies to be a little less grabby next time?”

“I’ll pass it on,” she tilted her head, “You know, not a lot of people get me to ask a question the second time. I’d suggest you consider yourself lucky – _why_ did you _ask_ for _me_?”

“…Right.” The woman gulped. Fahrenheit watched the flex of muscles in her neck, then flicked her eyes back up. “Piper Wright, Publick Occurrences. I was wondering if you knew a certain Bobbi No-Nose?”

Careful to hide the stiffness in her shoulders, all Fahrenheit responded with was a curl of her mouth and a hand on her hip. “Sure, I do. I also know you, y’know. Nosy newspaper type that hasn’t got a good reputation for minding her damn business.” Closer she stepped, pace steady, strolling, until she was near a foot from Piper, and could look her in the eye proper. The reporter was doing a good job at hiding her unease. Fahrenheit’s respect came in the form of a small smirk.

“Well,” Piper said, shrugging, “I’d say not minding my business comes with the territory of being a journalist. Now, are we gonna stand here exchanging schmancy one-liners, or are you willing to answer some questions?”

“…Points for spunk.” She rolled her eyes. “Alright, ask.”

“What, here?”

“I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Well, that you don’t…” Piper muttered, and maybe that was a once-over she got, maybe not, but she was speaking again soon enough. “So, you know- well, knew, Bobbi.” From her pocket she retrieved a small notebook and a little pencil. “Can I also assume you know about the incident at the Goodneighbor storehouse? Where No-Nose took her fall?”

Fahrenheit narrowed her eyes by a millimeter. “Sure,” she said through gritted teeth, “We _all_ know about that. Got a point hidden in those pretty words, doll?”

Piper, to her credit, hardly reacted to the show of threat, or maybe that was just her way of playing brave. She just shrugged and scratched something down in her notepad. “Of course I do. Reason I asked for you was because, well, eyewitnesses state you were the first casualty in the scene. Now, what _I’m_ curious about isn’t what happened after. I’m more interested in the before.” Her eyes flashed. “Word is you were the instigator to the conflict. Would you confirm or deny that statement?”

“ _Neither_ ,” she purred, more venom in the drawl than she’d meant. Fahrenheit stepped closer. One of her fingers tilted up Piper’s chin so she was _sure_ the girl was looking her in the eye, but she didn’t find much fear there. Oh, a little, of course, but only the classic sense of self preservation. Little Miss Wright wasn’t looking at her like a prey to predator. In fact, she wouldn’t have deigned to call that gaze animalistic at all.

“What’s a Diamond City reporter doing snooping around Goodneighbor business?” she continued, “Answer carefully, Miss Wright. Eyewitnesses say I’m an _instigator_.” Her finger jerked a little harder into her chin. “Would you confirm, or deny that statement?”

Piper sucked in a small breath through her nose. “Hey, hey,” she tried to soothe, “Not looking for any trouble. It’s just that, well, rumor spread about Bobbi and her “plan”. The _Diamond City_ strongroom. Then, we hear about Goodneighbor’s, instead. People are curious if you took the operation from her, and are planning to strike there next.” She gulped again, and this time Fahrenheit felt the pressure push against her fingers. “So, uh, mighty nice as this is, can I put my chin down now?”

She always loved dramatic effect, so Fahrenheit waited a beat before lowering her hand. Piper immediately jerked her head down, one hand coming up to rub beneath her chin. Her face looked a little redder than before. Fahrenheit smirked, stepped back, and jerked her head to the state house.

“I’ll set the record straight,” she said, “But no promises for the rest of me.”

* * *

 

Hancock felt in his pocket and cursed when it came back flat, a little hiss through his teeth that caught Charity’s attention as they walked.

“Somethin’ wrong?” she pried. He just grumbled in response.

“Guess I shouldn’t have showed off so damn much with my shooting.” He leveled the empty barrel of his shotgun for example. “Outta ammo, and considering I’m the only one of our little outfit who’s keen on _usin’_ it, well…”

He earned a little eye-roll and contemptuous purse of her lips, but otherwise Charity was unaffected as she took his gun to inspect it. “Well,” she said, “I s’pose y’ can use mine until we get t’ a settlement?”

“Not that I mind, sister, but you sure?” He took the gun back from her and holstered it on his hip. “Not a lotta folks would feel comfortable unarmed out here. Even if it’s you.”

“Well, like y’ said,” she shrugged, “I ain’t likely t’ use it unless it’s somethin’ feral or wild – or both. Let’s keep it on someone capable.”

“Wasn’t implying you _weren’t_ capable,” he muttered, but kept it under his breath enough to stay out her range. Besides, Charity was already shrugging her weapon off the sling and inspecting the safety, thin fingers running near lovingly over the grain of the wood. She handed it to Hancock. He tried to take it with the same kind of grace, if only for the sake of decorum.

“…Y’know how t’ shoot it, right?” Charity looked a bit like she wanted to laugh. Tight lips stretched into a smile. Hancock just rolled his eyes – probably a motion more effective with, y’know, pupils.

“I’ve shot a rifle before, sunshine.”

“Sure, sure. Let’s see some examples, then.” Maybe it was just him, but the girl had a different air about her in that moment – something prouder, a little more dignified, all because he was holding the gun instead of her. Like she could claim nonchalance, she folded her arms behind her back. “That speed limit sign, right ahead of us. Hit that.”

He followed her finger to the sign in question and couldn’t help a snort of laughter at the prospect. “Jones, that’s a sixty-yard long _no_ from me. I do gut shots, doll, not creepily accurate nonsense like you and Mac.”

“That gun ain’t built for nothin’ more _than_ “creepily accurate nonsense”, Hancock,” she teased back. “If y’ wanna maximize the damage, y’ gotta be accurate – the caliber a’ bullets it uses are smaller an’ more precise because it was built t’ conserve sound and shrapnel, t’ avoid alertin’ other animal herds as much as possible. See, look at the barrel,” her small hands were around the gun again, not taking it from him, but just angling it slightly upward so he could see the width of the metal. Sure enough, it was leagues thinner in diameter than his sawed-off favorite, “If y’ go for them “gut shots” y’ ain’t gonna do much more damage than a 10 millimeter. Efficient aim is the key t’ results with a gun like this.”

“…Damn,” was all he could say, eyes wider than he’d like to admit, “You know your shit, sister.”

Charity smiled and flushed a bit like he’d complimented her hair. “Thanks. I do take a lil’ pride where I can.”

“Well, hey, don’t let me tell you different,” he offered, raising the rifle where she’d pointed. Aim was never his strong suit, but if it meant getting Charity’s approval…

The sign _clanged_ and sported a fresh new bullet dent. Beside him, Charity cheered, bouncing on the balls of her feet while he flicked the safety back on. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t any small amount of pride in his chest at seeing that dimpled grin or the way she flicked those lashes up at him, but it was too early and he was too sober to overanalyze a good thing when he saw it.

“So, how ‘bout it?” he asked, “Did I pass?”

“Course y’ did,” she said, sincerely. God, his heart. “If we run into a gang a’ rouge road signs, they won’t know what hit ‘em.”

“Hey, now,” he growled, all playful as he reached to ruffle her hair. Charity tried to doge it but he caught her immediately, the both of them snickering while his hand mussed her short locks into a molerat’s nest. Lightly, his arm locked around her neck as he continued his torment.

Charity’s laugh was light and clear while she tried to wriggle out his grip. No avail, sunshine. “Pfft, alright, I- I take it back! I do!”

“Yeah, you better,” Hancock let her go only to flick her hat again. “I’ll have you know, I _also_ threaten lampposts.”

She giggled again at that, hands over her smile. He was half tempted to peel them off. “Oh, mighty Hancock, destroyer a’ road signs, bane a’ street lamps.”

“And damn proud of it.”

* * *

 

Piper looked like she was ready to bolt at any second, sat pretty in the office couch, and Fahrenheit almost drew it out for the effect. Unfortunately, she wasn’t backup anymore – acting like a mayor meant _not_ terrifying any drifter you saw.

Nevertheless, she did take her time while she sauntered to sit across from her. Fahrenheit plopped into the couch, crossed an armored leg over the other, and leaned her chin on her hand. Then, she said, “Speak.”

Piper was immediate, leaning forward, “Like I said, the people need to know what the main goal is here. I figured I could do worse than getting it from the source.”

“The people, Wright?” Fahrenheit grinned, all teeth, “Or just you?”

The reporter chuckled a bit, breathily, and shrugged. “So, I’m a little personally interested too. I get it, really – you don’t trust me, I don’t trust you, and with one wrong move I’m gonna be another stain on those curtains. This isn’t the most threatened a story has gotten me.”

“That sounded like a challenge.”

“No, it definitely wasn’t, good God,” Piper coughed lightly and cleared her throat, “I don’t print anything but the truth. That’s…that’s just what the people deserve.”

She watched for any signs of dishonesty, any twitching lips or sideways glances, but Piper checked out. With a long sigh, Fahrenheit finally nodded. “Okay then. Yes, I “instigated” it, if by “instigated” you mean I heard she was breaking into our shit. One of her lackeys, Mel, got scared and ratted her out.”

“I see,” Piper was furiously scribbling into her notepad, “So she had an accomplice. What did you do, when you learned about the plan for Diamond City?”

“There _was_ no plan,” Fahrenheit growled, “It was a ruse. Bobbi wanted her pawns to think they were breaking into Diamond City so there weren’t any issues of loyalty. Mel showed me the blueprints for their, ah, “dig”. Sure enough, it didn’t lead anywhere near your strongroom.”

Piper paused in her writing, then looked up at her. “Guilty accomplice sells out criminal kingpin; I could definitely work with that. So, what was your goal in confronting her?”

“…To get her to stop?” she said, confusion apparent. Piper’s eye roll told her that wasn’t a very good answer. Despite herself, Fahrenheit groaned and continued. “Ugh. Look, I thought I could talk her down. Hancock took Bobbi in when _your_ mayor purged the ghouls out. He wouldn’t have been happy if I’d cut her down without a second thought.” After a pause, she added, “…Though, in the long run, I guess I should have.”

“…Because I’m still slightly afraid of you,” Piper muttered, “You want that last part on or, uh, off the record?”

“Surprise me.”

“Right…” she winced a little and made a few notes. “So it _was_ entirely a Goodneighbor scheme. That’ll let a few folks sleep at night, at least.”

Fahrenheit’s response was a shrug. “Are we done here?”

“Just about.” Piper stood and tucked the notebook back in her coat. She didn’t immediately make for the door, however, just stood and fixed Fahrenheit with a question behind her eyes. It took a while to work itself out, her lips tight, but finally she relented. “Hey, uh, aside from the interview, can I ask something?”

She snorted. “Funny time to ask for permission. Sure.”

“It’s not- it’s not for the paper.” Piper rubbed her neck. “Uh, a while back I ran into someone from here – or, well, maybe she wasn’t _from_ here, no, but she said she’d been staying here for a while and- okay, Piper, real sentences, please.” A little knock to her head that made Fahrenheit hold back a snicker. “My point is. Do you know a girl named Charity?”

Fahrenheit cocked a brow. “…I do.”

“Oh, great- is she here?” The girl seemed a little more hopeful now, a little more relaxed. Fahrenheit waved her hand with a shake of her head.

“Left a while ago,” she said, “With Hancock. She had a job to do in Nahant.”

“…Oh. Okay.” Piper frowned. She picked herself back up a moment later. “Did she…seem okay?”

“What kind of question is that?” Fahrenheit blinked, but when Piper jerked a little at the bite in her tone, she found herself softening it, despite everything. “I mean…yes. After Bobbi, some shit went down, and she _wasn’t_ okay for a while, but she was fine last I saw her.” She paused, and added, “Why?”

“No- no reason!” Piper said hastily, “I better get back to Diamond City. If they’ll even let me in, this time.” She grumbled on her way out. “Thank you for the interview, by and by.”

“Anything for the “people”, Wright,” Fahrenheit offered, following her on her way. “I’ve just got one condition.”

“Oh?” Piper turned. Fahrenheit smirked.

“Drop a copy off when you’ve printed,” she said, “Let me judge the accuracy.”

* * *

 

A bullet whizzed by Hancock’s cheek and instantly he was shoving Charity down behind a pile of tires, hand firm on her hat while a few more flew above them. He felt his face – no blood, it hadn’t scraped, but it had been _damn_ close and he wasn’t interested in testing the waters.

“Don’t hit the travelers, darn it!” an angry voice shouted, and next he heard the distinctive _thwump_ of a hand on leather, “Can’t you aim, dummy?”

“You try hitting a molerat that far off!” the other voice responded, younger but with the practiced authority he knew from brats that drifted through Goodneighbor.

“Go apologize, but give me the gun,” the other one said, and now that his ears weren’t ringing he could hear similar youth as well – but maybe a little older. “Give it here, go on, Harley.”

As he heard the light crunch of “Harley’s” footsteps, Hancock looked down at Charity, cocking a brow to which she just responded with a shrug. Neither of them much dared to speak. Not until that crunching grew louder and soon Harley was in front of them, all…four feet of him.

Sure enough, the kid was short, and Hancock couldn’t have guessed more than eleven, twelve years old. Clean enough, a little grime that could have come from anything across his cheeks along with a smattering of freckles like paint dollops. He saw a bit of red hair peeking out from under his hat – a style of hat that looked vaguely familiar. His outfit, too. Where had he seen that before?

Harley regarded them with a careful indifference. Finally, he grit his teeth, begrudgingly removing his hat to reveal more wild red curls beneath. “…Sorry about nearly shooting you,” he said, lowly, “It won’t happen again.”

“Hey, brother, no hard feelings,” Hancock managed, a little shakier than he might have wanted, “But, uh, maybe warn a fella next time some molerats give you problems.”

Harley frowned and looked like he wanted to say something he was too young to know, but just before that the other voice from before caught up to them – matching with another kid, older than Harley but no less scrappy. She was a bit taller, though not by much, and had a skinny face with darker skin and deep-set eyes.

“Did you apologize?” the kid asked. Harley snorted.

“Yeah, I did. What, did I do it _wrong_ or something, June?”

Charity and him blinked at each other, then back at June. June just frowned at him through a curl of her lip. She then turned back to them, nodded her head, and smiled – revealing a mouth with a missing front tooth.

“I’m sorry about Harley,” she said, “I’m June. We didn’t mean to shoot at civilians – honest, there _were_ molerats around. We were just trying to take care of them.”

What kinda kid called people “civilians”? That little inch of familiarity was more like a foot now. Hancock observed that she wore the same uniform as Harley, and god, it was _killing_ him how he couldn’t remember what they were from. As he worked the image around in his mind Charity spoke up from beside him, tone much gentler than he would have expected from someone who’d just been shot at.

“Nice t’ meet ya, June,” she said, smiling. Charity rose up and stood, dusting off her jacket and leaning over to look the kids in the eye. “I’m Charity. If y’ want, I can give y’ some pointers ‘bout shootin’ those molerats, if they’re givin’ ya that much trouble.”

“Jones, c’mon,” Hancock grumbled, “Didn’t your, ah, “job” need you in Nahant?” Both of the kids jerked a little at the word, June more than Harley, “Wouldn’t advise to keep someone like that “boss” of yours waiting, sister.”

Charity rolled her eyes at him and shook her head. “He ain’t hired me for quickness. He’ll understand.”

“Sound awful sure about that, sunshine,” Hancock shot back, but let the subject drop. It was Charity’s job, not his, and he took a moment to ask himself why he was even bothering speeding up this mission at all. The faster they went, the faster he met Pickman again, and the faster he would probably have to confront the five inhalers of Jet needed to endure _that_ conversation.

Charity turned back to the kids. “Just a lil’ lesson. Wouldn’t want ya gettin’ anybody hurt, now.”

“Well…” Harley started, pursing his lips. Hancock rose a brow when the kid shot his gaze to him, narrowed his eyes, and looked back at Charity, “I dunno, we’re not supposed to fraternize with-“

“Thank you, ma’am,” June said, slapping her hand over Harley’s mouth, “But we’ll just be more careful next time. Won’t we, Harley?”

Harley motioned to the hand still over his mouth. June scoffed, removed it, and then he spoke up. “Yes, ma’am, we will. You should go to your job.”

Hancock knew that look in Charity’s eye – she wanted to argue, _badly_ , but she wasn’t about to. Her fingers just curled a little, relaxed, then shoved themselves into her pocket while Hancock got up to join her. Both the kids flinched a little – his cocked brow went higher.

“If you’re sure,” Charity said, “Well, alright then. Can’t we at least take y’ to your parents? I dunno how I feel, leavin’ kids out this late in the day.”

The minute their faces fell Hancock winced and sucked a bit of air through his teeth. Shit. Shit, that’s how it was. Why did he always get the delicate situations?

“Jones,” he muttered, leaning down to her ear, “Just let ‘em go. C’mon.”

“Hancock,” she hissed back, “Ain’t y’ worried? Anythin’ could happen out here!”

“They got a gun, they sorta know how to use it, let ‘em sort it out,” he urged back, flicking his eyes back to the kids. Harley wasn’t looking at them anymore, just the ground, while June’s face had grown still. His heart sank just a little more. “Charity, sister, just listen to them.”

“It’s alright, ma’am!” June suddenly perked up, voice loud enough to make them all jump, “We can get back just fine. Please be on your way.”

“…You’re sure I can’t walk y’ home?” Charity pressed. June shook her head and took Harley by the hand.

“No ma’am.” She started walking, off through some older ruins, “Have a good evening.” Then, one of her fists landed on her chest, firm with a conviction Hancock hated himself to have finally recognized. He cursed as she spoke. “Ad victoriam.”

* * *

 

So, he took back what he said about Charity never being mad at him.

Mostly, because right after the children had left and he’d grown comfortable with that little pit in his stomach, she hadn’t talked to him. Barely more than an “alright” or “sure” had left her lips their entire walk, and now that they’d made camp, huddled around a fire and a small warehouse he was surprised didn’t carry any mutants, she’d kept the quiet game up to a world goddamn record, stoking the flame with a long stick and near pout on her lips.

He wanted to groan. This, _this_ was why he didn’t handle delicate situations. Someone’s foot always got in someone’s mouth, and usually he was the owner of both.

“…Look,” he started, earning a flick of her gaze and nothing more, “You can be pissed as you want at me, sister, but I wouldn’t assume it’s much going to bother me. If you wanna talk, let’s talk. Otherwise, the most your broodin’s gonna get you is a few wrinkles on your face.” He tried a grin, crooked and dashing (he hoped), “Be a shame. It’s a real nice one, as they come.”

She stared at him a little longer, he saw her cheeks flush again, and then she turned her stare back to the fire. At least this time, she spoke. “…They could be dead by now, y’know,” she said, quiet, thoughtful, “I don’t know how y’ could just let ‘em walk off like that, Hancock. You’re a father. Y’ should know.”

_And there it is_ , he thought, grimly. Hancock shoved his unease with his cigarettes and tossed another stick into the fire.

“They survived this long, they ain’t gonna be dead now.” He saw her open her mouth to say something and cut her off. “Sunshine, those kids didn’t _have_ parents.”

She stopped. Charity blinked, her eyes shifted from narrowed to wide, but that furrow in her brow remained and she gulped. “How did y’ know?”

“I took in an orphan, Jones. You think I don’t know how to spot ‘em?”

“I…oh. I’m – I’m sorry. I stayed angry at ya the whole damn day an’ I- I’m sorry, John.” Her voice warbled a little at the end and Hancock suddenly remembered a certain cardinal, how it might have sounded before Fahrenheit’s fingers snuffed it out. It did things to his heartstrings he didn’t want to think about. Charity’s eyes glistened in the firelight. She sniffed once, which was all it took for Hancock to sidle closer to her.

“Sorry, sorry,” she kept repeating, “I just- I thought ‘bout Shaun, an’ how I ain’t there for _him_ , an’ then we saw those kids an’ I-“ a harsh hiccup made her wince and bury her face into her hands, but he still heard the sobs. Hancock couldn’t have been more at a loss.

“Hey, now, c’mon,” he tried to urge, hands hovering anxiously above her shoulders, unsure where to land, “Jones, I’m hardly mad at ya.”

“I’m mad at _myself_ , Hancock,” she said, voice muffled, “He’s out there just like those kids are, ain’t got anybody, except for the bastard who took ‘im, what right do I got t’ be here? If, If Nate had been the one-“

“Now you hold it, right there, sister,” Hancock was speaking before he meant to. His nervous hands had also stopped on Charity’s arms, softly, but he squeezed just enough to let her know. “What we’re not gonna do is kid ourselves that you ain’t the one that needs to be here, right here, right now. We also ain’t gonna pretend that the jackass that took your kid isn’t getting what he deserves the second we find him.”

She stopped crying, just sniffed, but still didn’t lift her head. “…We?”

He hadn’t realized he’d said that, but never one to deny an opportunity, he continued. “Yeah, “we”, Charity. Didn’t I tell you? If you get into trouble, you gotta get into it with me. Ain’t gonna forgive you otherwise.”

This time, Charity did lift her head, her eyes red and puffy but clear. That blue looked even more watery than before. Hancock found his throat a little dry. “…I’m sorry,” she said again, softer, “I’m makin’ ya get into more trouble than y’ bargained for.”

“Damn, Harley get your ears with that bullet?” Hancock laughed and lightly poked her earlobe, making her snicker at the sensation, “You just love makin’ a brother repeat himself, don’t you. I _like_ trouble, sunshine. And I like you.” His hand shifted up, just enough to ruffle the curls in her hair. “You go thinkin’ otherwise, and I’m liable to keep you here till you know better.”

“Now, I thought y’ didn’t like repeatin’ yourself,” she teased back. Her grin had returned but the regular pace of his heart had not. Charity only worsened that by leaning _into_ his hand, no, further than that, her tiny frame sidling alongside him until she was proper tucked under the crook of his arm, and his expression probably looked a little more panicked than it should have.

She sighed, eyes locked on the fire. “…What did June say before she left? Sounded like Latin.”

Alright, now he looked a _lot_ more panicked than he should have, so he did the natural thing and played it off with a cough. “It’s…not really something I expected, to be honest.” He paused, looking down at her. “Wait, you don’t have Brotherhood in, uh, “Texas”?”

“Brotherhood?” she asked, frowning, “What’s that?”

“Hell, ain’t heard that question in a while…” Hancock shifted a bit and tried not to think of how close she was under his arm. “In my opinion, they’re a bunch of overpowered wannabes who think our little Commonwealth can’t run itself just fine. Didn’t think they ran this far out here, though. Capitol Wasteland runners, most of them are.”

“Huh.” She was still frowning, still confused. Charity tilted her head up to look at him. “Y’ don’t sound much like y’ like ‘em.”

“That I don’t, Jones,” he chuckled dryly. “Let’s just say that folks like them are what I ran Goodneighbor _against_. Maybe not them, directly, but hell, we all know their kind runs in more skins than power armor.” _Like today_ , he reminded himself. Kids. They just had to use kids. “Those shrimps we saw were probably what they call “squires”. Got some whole demented class system in their ranks.”

She sounded a little careful when she spoke. “…What do they do?”

“Ain’t very fond of me, or folks like me, for starters.” He felt her stiffen under his arm. “Anyone that ain’t human, they don’t like. Basic wastelander prejudice, but back it with firepower and stolen armor and suddenly it’s a “codex”. Real demented, military shit.”

She was quiet. So quiet he was half convinced she’d fallen asleep until he leaned his head down to look and boy, she definitely _wasn’t_ – her eyes were locked on the flame again, but they were narrowed, harsh and angry and- okay, he had to admit, a little bit hot. He really needed to get his priorities checked.

“…Don’t much care for military,” she said, “An’ I definitely don’t care for folks who treat y’ like that. That just ain’t right.”

He laughed a little bit, if only to ease that burning in her eyes; it did, a bit, but he still felt a jolt when that sharp gaze turned up at him again. He did not have a thing for this. This was _not_ turning into a thing. “Cool it, tiger. Nothin’ I’m not used to already. Long as I know the _important_ folks are on my side,” his finger lightly jabbed her side for emphasis, “Don’t got nothin’ to worry about. Appreciate the defense line, all the same.”

Finally that vitriol softened, replaced by Charity’s signature softness and chuckle. “I’m happy t’ be your defense line, John.” Something about “John” burned in him – he blamed the fire. That look in her eyes. “You wanna get some rest?”

The traitorous, near-instant image in his mind of them “resting”, together, right under the stars shot a bolt of electricity to him like a damn lightning rod, and for his sanity’s sake he looked away from her and cleared his throat. “Uh, heh, yeah, sounds good. I’m gonna sleep, um. Over there.” He released her (not that quickly) and shifted to the other side of the fire. Charity blinked at the motion, but thankfully, didn’t seem to question it anymore.

She smiled as she laid down, folding her arms beneath her head. Her eyes locked on the stars. “Night, Hancock.”

He spoke back, but he wasn’t looking at the sky. “Night, Jones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna first off start by saying I had an extremely lovely commenter go in and review every single chapter with long, wonderful comments that really warmed my heart. It's comments like that that make writing these things so fun and lovely. I started this fic just out of some curiosity of how my f!ss would react with Hancock, so I'm really glad y'all all like her so much!! This chapter took a little longer because of life stuff and all, but yeah, here it is. I just hope Hancock's heart will survive until the next one :D


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